


we always come back around

by dinolaur



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Briefly Mentioned Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Eventual Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, F/M, M/M, Mentioned drug and alcohol abuse, Stanley Uris/Patty Uris - Freeform, affair au, other Losers come in later, richie and eddie meet before The Call, that includes Stanley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22821139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinolaur/pseuds/dinolaur
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak has a lot on his plate. He lives in one of the biggest cities in the world, a disgusting petri dish of eight million people. His job is highly stressful, and his marriage is a sham he can't make himself leave. He's also having a very gay affair with famous comedian Richie Tozier, who Eddie forgot he grew up with until meeting him again after a show.And this is all before that stupid clown rears its ugly head again, ready to eat them all alive.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 65
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe it's the mean clown movie that has me writing again after like three years. the audacity

Eddie groans as he slaps his bedside table, looking for his phone blaring its loud alarm. The bliss of the silence only lasts a few seconds before Eddie digs the heels of his palms at his eyes, groaning again as he remembers what day it is.

They have associate partners in from the Chicago branch, and Eddie is part of the team assigned to make sure they have a good time in New York. For the life of him, Eddie does not know why he was picked for this. He’s not the sort of guy who goes out. He doesn’t ever want to, and Myra rarely lets him without a fight.

And fight him on this she had, even knowing that he didn’t have a say in the matter. It’s part of work. It’s not for fun. She doesn’t care, just complains about all the things that could go wrong at night in the city. As if he doesn’t already know.

Eddie drags himself into the bathroom and takes an aggressively cold shower. He needs to be awake and stay awake. It’s going to be a long day.

He gets dressed and pours a large thermos of coffee. Myra has a lunch packed for him, and they get into another fight when he reminds her that he has to take the partners out. She goes into the same hysterics she always does. He doesn’t love her this. He doesn’t appreciate her that. She tries and she tries and it’s never good enough.

Eddie doesn’t have time to try to smooth this over. He has meetings and presentations all day, and he can’t be late. He just has to tell her that no, he does love and appreciate her and that he’ll take the food in tomorrow if it’s something that’ll last a day. He has to kiss her cheek and leave knowing that she’ll be angry at him for a couple of days, making the house even more miserable and strained than it usually is.

None of it is surprising. It’s just routine, so deeply ingrained into him that he can never seem to muster up the energy to be irritated by it or to question it. It just is.

The skyline, already a towering and forbidding thing even from Brooklyn, swallows him up slowly as he crosses the bridge. Traffic is what it always is, and he gulps down burning mouthfuls of coffee to try to keep his temper in check. He can’t go into this day mad. He can’t bring in Myra and the city’s most suffocating features. He needs to radiate some fucking confidence and sunshine.

The morning meeting and work flow go along just as expected. His bosses are watching just a bit closer, eyes just that little bit more critical. But everything goes as it should. Everything is immaculate.

The team takes their guests to Katz’s for lunch because of course they do. Eddie’s never really seen what’s so special about the place. Ok, it was in _When Harry Met Sally_ , but other than that? He’s always been underwhelmed by it. All the Chicago guys get the pastrami on rye because that’s what Yelp says to do. The New Yorkers are a little more varied. Eddie gets matzo soup and thinks that it’s at least better than whatever was in Myra’s packed lunch.

The original plan for their guests had been a nice steakhouse for dinner and then move on to some upscale bar. Just a simple night out. No chance for anything crazy to happen, just some good hospitality. The plan had changed slightly at nearly the last minute. Chicago had rung them up offering sort of a more mutual thing. They’d take care of the entertainment portion of the night, and New York could handle the food.

And that’s how Eddie finds himself after a long day of intense work sitting in a steak house waiting until it’s time for the group to head out to a comedy show.

“It’s perfect timing,” Jack, the youngest of the Chicago guys, says. “The guy’s from Chicago, but he’s on tour.”

“And who is he again,” Eddie’s boss asks. He’s glad the older man did. Eddie didn’t want to. He’s not the youngest man at this table, but he feels like he should be of the age to know current famous comedians.

“Rich Tozier,” Jack says, and the name sounds vaguely familiar. “He broke through on SLN about, I guess, something like almost ten years ago? He’s been in some movies, has a show on HBO, but he’s done stand-up all along through it. Guy’s hilarious. If he does them, his impressions are spot on. Guarantee you’ll have a good time.”

Eddie’s not too sure. SNL never really did it for him, just some of the old Bill Murray sketches or Dan Aykroyd. Maybe Eddie Murphy.

Daniel, a guy Eddie often gets partnered with on clients, slaps at Eddie’s back, thankfully after he finishes taking a sip of his wine. “It’s a comedy show. Try not to look so dour about it, Ed.”

Eddie quickly pastes a smile back on and doesn’t grumble about being called Ed. Some jackass who has since moved onto a more exclusive office uptown had started it when Eddie was first hired. Said Eddie sounded like something a kid should be called. Everyone else had agreed, and so around the office he always has to put up with Ed.

The venue oddly isn’t that large. Eddie had been expecting some massive theater if this guy is famous—fucking Radio City or something—but the place is nice. It’s sold out, but the venue being small means Eddie doesn’t feel so much like he’s walking into a petri dish. They have pretty good seats, and the stage is lit up bright. As much as Eddie would have expected a larger venue, even this small one has a stage that seems too much for just a single person to fill up.

When the house lights dim, the crowd cheers loudly, and then they lose their minds as the comedian walks onstage. Eddie claps, because not doing it would be a dick move, even though the noise he alone makes could never be noticed among the rest of the crowd.

The man grins as he pulls the microphone off from the stand, waving. Eddie doesn’t know what he was expecting from this guy, but what he’s seeing isn’t it. Maybe because Jack said he was in movies, Eddie was expecting someone more handsome and put together. The man’s hair is a dark mess of shaggy, unkempt waves, and he probably hasn’t shaved in a few days at least. Even from this distance, his glasses look very thick. His clothes are just shy of being rumpled, all muted earth tones, and the print on the shirt something Eddie can’t quite make out.

Something ticks at the back of Eddie’s mind, and he might have seen something with this guy in it after all. Maybe a Netflix special, something he turned on just for the background noise.

The show gets rolling, and Eddie has to admit, he likes the guy’s performance. Why he doesn’t know. These jokes aren’t really funny, but he still laughs and smiles in a irritatedly fond manner. Exasperated by the antics but never wanting it to really stop. Eddie doesn’t do much by way of comedy, but the way the guy tells the jokes is familiar and comforting, and that’s not what this should be like, but Eddie feels somehow both tighter and looser in his chest.

And the stage, the one Eddie had felt at first was too big, now it seems far too small for him. He paces up and down, gesturing wildly. He’s full of buzzing energy, cheeks pink against fair skin. He’s bright and wild and loud, all things Eddie thinks he’s forgotten how to be since he was a kid. Not that he ever took up space like this as a kid, but something about the way the man moves and speaks, it calls up fuzzy memories of riding bikes, swimming, and clubhouses.

A fucking ridiculous notion when the man is telling a story about his messy dating life.

“Good night, New York! Thank you!” The crowd stands, applauding thunderously as the man waves and bows. Eddie stands with them, clapping hard until his hands hurt.

They follow the flow of the crowd out of the theater, Jack excitedly asking the New Yorkers how they liked it. Everyone says it was great, even Eddie’s boss, who really doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be into that, even more so than Eddie.

The lobby of the venue has an old bar, and some of the crowd has gathered over there, clumped messily around one end. They look and quickly see why. The comedian is over there, signing things that are passed to him and taking brief photos. Jack jerks his thumb over there. “Kind of corny, but what do you say?”

“Hell, why not,” his partner answers, and they join the crowd. It moves fairly quickly. Someone on the guy’s staff must be over there to keep people from loitering.

As the group in front of them walks away, Eddie catches a familiar glimpse of blue. It’s a blue he saw every day of his childhood, magnified behind thick lenses, a blue he can’t believe he ever forgot, and suddenly there’s a reason why the show had filled him up with summer memories. Eddie pushes past before Jack can lead the way. He stops just short and says, “New York already has enough garbage without adding you to the mix, Trashmouth.”

(Eddie will google it later and learn that Trashmouth was the name of his first big tour.)

Richie blinks at him for only a second, and then his entire face lights up like the sun. “Eddie? Holy shit, Eds!” He throws himself off the stool, wrapping arms around Eddie in a tight hug and lifting him off his feet.

“Don’t fucking call me Eds, asshole,” Eddie laughs.

Richie sets him back on his feet and pats the top of his head. “Aw, you wound me, Eddie. Sweet little Eddie-bear. Still so small.”

Richie stretches himself to his tallest possible height without going up on his toes. Eddie rolls his eyes. He hadn’t been impressed on the first big growth spurt in eighth grade, and he’s even less so now. “Stop it or I’m going to slit your throat.”

“I’ll make my escape while you’re looking for a ladder, short-stack,” Richie says. “And you could never. It would devastate your mom to lose me and that sweet, tender loving I give her every night.” Eddie levels him with the same look he’s given Richie a million times, and Richie grins like a kid on Christmas morning. Eddie could tell him that his mom died a few years back, but that would be a huge bummer. And it’s good to see Richie, see him smiling.

A slight cough from their sides, and Richie tears his eyes away to look at his manager or whoever. The man gives him a questioning glaze, titling his head back to the line behind them. Richie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing for a second.

It brings Eddie back down. He isn’t sure why. But he remembers suddenly that they’re not kids anymore. They’re adults. They haven’t seen each other in over twenty years. Haven’t spoken since Richie’s family moved away. Eddie can’t even begin to recall the last time he thought about Richie Tozier.

“Got famous after all, huh,” Eddie says, shoving hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why exactly, but better he breaks off first than Richie. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Wait,” Richie says. “Wait. You live in New York?”

“Brooklyn,” Eddie says.

“Same thing,” Richie says. “Let’s do drinks tomorrow. Catch up. Been a fucking while.” He snaps at his manager, waving a hand wildly, and the manager pulls out a card from his wallet. Richie snatches it, flips it over to scribble on the back, and hands it to Eddie. “Call me tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

Forget.

Did Richie forget about Eddie too?

Eddie pockets the card and nods. Richie’s face changes, something like relief there. He briefly shakes hands with the guys at Eddie’s back and then reaches out to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder before he’s directed back to the line. Eddie looks back and sees that Richie’s attention is still on him far more than the next group of fans.

Jack and Daniel barely wait until they’re halfway to the doors to explode. “Dude, you know him,” Jack exclaims, and over his shoulder, Daniel’s eyes are about as wide as his.

Eddie shrugs. “We grew up together.”

“And you just mention this now?”

“I didn’t recognize him until we got up close,” Eddie says.

They try to pry stories of childhood from him, but Eddie has no way to explain how little he really remembers about his hometown. His house, his mother, sure, but everything else is just blurry, something out of a dream or nightmare. He’s sure he could navigate the streets if he had to go back, but nothing significant stands out. Derry and childhood were things he put in his rearview mirror as soon as he could, and he never gives them any thought.

``

Myra is predictably still upset with him the next day. She had stayed up until he got home, awake but pretending to be asleep and giving him the cold shoulder. It’s no better in the morning. The silence bothers him more than it should, more than it ever does. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to break it, but the first thought that comes into his head is seeing Richie. Eddie closes his mouth. He doesn’t know why, but something about telling Myra about Richie doesn’t feel right. That burst of recognition and elation, the familiarity of blue eyes behind thick glasses, being called Eds for the first time in over two decades, those things aren’t for Myra.

He accepts the bagged lunch at the door and kisses her cheek. A voice in his head calls out, “ _One for me too, Mrs. K?_ ” Eddie bolts to the garage.

The traffic is the same, but the skyline feels like something new. A city of over eight million people, and somehow he managed to cross paths with a person from childhood he never expected to see again, never even thought to wonder about. Is it weird that he never stopped to wonder about his old friends? That he thinks so little about childhood that everyone he considered important once upon a time no longer has a place even in the dusty corners of his mind? The guys last night had all seemed disappointed and confused that he couldn’t think of anything concrete to tell them about Richie. Is it not normal to leave childhood so behind like this? Leave it behind and grow up. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

There’s one more morning meeting with the Chicago partners before they fly out. Eddie can’t seem to focus. He’s lucky he doesn’t have any presentations, that he’ll get the minutes emailed to him by the afternoon. The card with Richie’s number on it, tucked safely into his wallet, burns a hole through his pocket. It’s all he can think about.

Was Richie actually serious? Would it be a good idea to call him? It couldn’t hurt, he reasons. And so what if Richie wasn’t serious? So what if his call goes unanswered or someone else answers to tell him that a meetup isn’t going to happen. How could that matter when they haven’t seen each other in so long and spoke for less than a minute?

Eddie debates with himself all morning. It’s inconsequential but also so imperative. It shouldn’t matter, but Eddie wants to see Richie again. He wants something that’s new but familiar in a good way, even just for an hour over some beers.

He taps out the scrawled number—Jesus, he forgot how shitty Richie’s handwriting is, big and bubbled and messy—and he stares at it for a long moment. He pulls in a deep breath, steadying himself and thinking he’s dumb to be so nervous, and he hits the call button.

It rings and rings, and a panic settles in Eddie’s stomach. He shouldn’t have called. He shouldn’t have tried. What was he thinking—“Hello,” a voice finally says in his ear, a question more than anything else.

Eddie swallows and says, “Richie. It’s Eddie.”

“Yeah, hey,” Richie says. “What’s up?”

“You told me to call you,” Eddie says.

“Yeah,” Richie says again. “Yeah, I did.”

This is not going great. They both sound weird and stiff. Like the strangers they now are. Eddie wants to fix it, but how can you fix a bridge that fell apart twenty-five years ago, and on a single phone call no less. He should just end it. Tell Richie it was nice to see him, wish him luck, and hang up.

His hand tightens on the phone, pressing it firmer to his ear. His body demands that he stay even as his brain screams at him to abort the whole thing.

“You still in town,” Eddie asks.

Richie hums in affirmation. “Yeah, got another show tomorrow. Madison Square Garden. Fly out pretty much right after for Boston.”

Shit, Eddie thinks. “Oh,” he says, and he sounds too disappointed. “Probably need to rest up for that.”

“No,” Richie says quickly. “No, I could—we could do something. Catch up over happy hour or—?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, sure. Um, do you know a place?”

“You’re the one who lives here, man,” Richie says.

“Right,” Eddie says. “I can—this is your cell? I can look something up and send you the address.”

There’s a brief silence before Richie gives him the affirmative, and Eddie thinks he had nodded but then realized Eddie couldn’t see that. “So I’ll text you,” Eddie says.

“Sure,” Richie answers, and they hang up, awkward from beginning to end. Why was it so awkward? They hadn’t parted on bad terms. They had just parted.

Eddie rubs his hands over his face. He’s tired. It was a long day yesterday, and he’s turning today into a long one too. But Richie’s only in town one more night. That’s important for some reason.

He pulls up Google and starts researching bars. He has no idea where in the city Richie is staying but figures he can get a Lyft as easy as the next guy. It’s nearly an hour before Eddie finally settles on a place, copying the address and texting it to Richie with the time he gets off work. As soon as he hits send, he thinks of Myra.

Shit.

He panics for a minute. He shouldn’t but he does. It’s totally normal, he thinks, calling his wife to tell her that he ran into an old friend and is going out for a drink to catch up. It’s normal, but that feeling from this morning is back, the one that says Richie and Myra can’t be occupying the same space.

So Eddie pulls in a deep breath and types out a text, explaining that the partners are staying another day, and he has to go along to dinner with them again. He has to text her. He can’t lie over the phone. He knows she’ll hear it in his voice.

The read receipt comes up immediately, and then she’s calling him. He stares at the screen, waiting an eternity for it to go to voicemail. He gets the alert, and then it rings again. Again he waits, heart hammering in his chest. He sends her a text, saying he’s in a meeting and can’t talk.

Her response is as immediate as the call.

> [Myra]: You said they were only in town until today.
> 
> [Eddie]: The plans changed. I’m not in charge of that.
> 
> [Myra]: I don’t like you going out like this. You need to be at home. Tell them they can send someone else.
> 
> [Eddie]: I can’t do that. This is work.
> 
> [Myra]: It isn’t! It’s socializing and who knows what else. Tell them you have a wife and need to be home.
> 
> [Eddie]: You know I can’t do that. I have to accept responsibilities like this. It means they trust me, that I’m moving up the ladder more. This is a good thing.

She keeps texting him, and he keeps insisting that everything is ok, that this is just work and that he can’t get out of it, and it’ll all be for the better. Lies, but it’s just one night out with an old friend. One night won’t matter.

``

Eddie arrives at the bar first. It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, a place that doesn’t see much tourist attention unless those tourists are specifically on the lookout for places off the beaten track. It’s small and dimly lit in a way that Eddie doesn’t understand the purpose of. The tables are all small with rings marring the wood, chairs packed in tight and booths not really wide enough for two people.

He slides into one further towards the back, almost feeling like he couldn’t dare sit up front, where someone could see. Not that there’s anything to see, so who knows where this is coming from. He bounces his leg and taps thumbs against the edge of the table. After a moment he pulls out his phone. There’s the usual alerts. His map giving him the commute time home. Unanswered texts from Myra. Email notifications. His calendar and the news feed.

Nothing from Richie.

Eddie sets the phone on the table, trying not to stare at it and absolutely not succeeding. He still doesn’t know where Richie is staying in the city, and the traffic is as awful as it always is. There’s no telling how long it’ll take him to get down here, and either way, it’s not realistic that they would both show up at the same time. It’s only been a few minutes. That’s perfectly reasonable.

Eddie doesn’t know why he worries. Why it should bother him if Richie is late or even doesn’t show up at all. They haven’t seen each other in twenty-five years. What could it matter?

A waitress comes over to take his order. Eddie wonders briefly if he should have a drink waiting for Richie when or if he gets here, but Eddie has no clue at all what Richie drinks. Shitty rotten whiskey or watered down beers when they were in high school, but they aren’t kids anymore. And maybe it would be rude if Eddie ordered something for himself before Richie arrives.

He asks for a water, telling the waitress he’ll order something else when his friend comes. She walks off, and Eddie scolds himself for the information overload. It’s not like it was much, but why even bother. She doesn’t care. No one would, and Eddie doesn’t know why he’s feeling so nervous about all this.

She comes back with a plastic cup, green tinted, and a straw and cardboard coaster. She leaves without a word, and Eddie peels the paper from the straw. He takes a large gulp. His throat is weirdly dry. He crumples and uncrumples the paper until it’s softer than paper ever has the right to be. His phone never lights up, and he wonders how long he should wait to send a text or should he just leave because obviously this was a mistake and—

The door bursts open, and Richie walks in, craning his neck to look around the bar. A warm wave of relief washes over Eddie, and he holds up a hand. Richie nods and strolls down the bar to slide into the opposite booth. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting. The subways here are wild.”

Eddie arches a brow. “You took the subway?” Eddie can’t imagine why. Richie is famous. Wouldn’t that be awkward if people recognized him, and again, famous and rich. Why wouldn’t he just have someone drive him?

“Yeah,” Richie says, shrugging out of his jacket. “Fucking love subways, man. Such weird ass shit goes down in there.”

Eddie sort of smiles. Yeah, that seems about right. Weird and crazy is right up Richie’s alley. Eddie hates the subway. All he can think about down there is germs and disease and being swallowed up by crowds of strangers.

The waitress comes back over, this time with a happy hour menu. Richie takes a quick glance and shrugs in disinterest. He twists in the booth to look back at the bar and finds a whiskey. It’s on the top shelf. Eddie orders a white wine, the cheapest on the happy hour menu. He knows this is New York, but eight bucks a glass for the most shitty thing isn’t much of a deal.

“So,” Richie says as the waitress leaves, “been a while.”

“Yeah,” Eddie responds.

“What do you do,” Richie asks, eyeing Eddie’s suit. “You a doctor or something, because if you are, I’m going to need you to tell me exactly how many times you passed out in med school being around all the yucky and disease.”

Eddie grins. “Fuck off. No, I’m in risk analysis for an insurance company.”

Richie blinks. “Jesus Christ,” he exhales. “That’s the most you thing in the world.”

“Says the fucking court jester,” Eddie snaps back, and Richie laughs.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” He props his elbows up on the table. “What else? There has to be a little more to your life than just that.”

“Not as interesting as yours,” Eddie says, leaning back as the waitress comes with their drinks. “The guys I was with, they said you were on SNL?”

Richie takes a small sip of his whiskey. “Yeah, started in 2005.”

Eddie eggs him on, and it doesn’t take much for Richie to just jabber on about how he got started in professional comedy, working on SNL and meeting all sorts of famous people, movies, tours, and the hazards of the paparazzi.

Eddie laughs hysterically, and Richie balks. “What?”

“You,” Eddie cries. “You of all people not wanting to jump in front of a camera and do some stupid ass pose.”

“Sometimes a man just wants to go get some fucking milk from the store and—“

“Celebrities,” Eddie laughs, wiping at his eyes. “They buy milk just like you!”

And now Richie’s laughing too. “Oh man, please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who reads like the Enquirer or some bullshit.”

“Hey.” Eddie tries to form a more serious expression, but it absolutely doesn’t work. “Oprah’s affair with Obama could have destroyed our national security.”

Richie slaps at the table. “What? What!”

“I remember reading that one in line at the pharmacy once,” Eddie says.

“A fucking menace to society,” Richie says shaking his head.

“Must be why they like you so much,” Eddie offers, and Richie flips him off with a grin.

And they talk and talk through at least three more rounds. Whatever anxiety Eddie had been feeling before has long since washed away. He feels light. Lighter than he has in a very long time. It’s just him and Richie, and it feels like summer and bikes and swimming and sleepovers.

And then Richie says he’s hungry, and Eddie knows he should leave it at that. He ought to go home. To his wife.

But instead he asks if Richie has ever been to Shanghai Asian Manor, and Richie can’t recall. “We’re going,” Eddie says, only just remembering he can’t immediately jump up and drag Richie out by his sleeve. They need to pay first.

They catch a cab. “Holy shit,” Richie says when he takes his first bite of the scallion pancake. “Holy shit. This—this is a game changer.” He cranes his neck to look over towards the kitchen. “You think I could pay for this recipe? Or like—hell, I’m single. I can marry into the family.”

“What about my mom,” Eddie asks, despite the door he knows it’ll open. “You really gonna break her heart like that?”

Richie laughs so hard he starts coughing. When he’s calmed down, he says, “Ok, ok, here’s the plan. I marry into the family just long enough to get my hands on this recipe and see how it’s done. Then I divorce, marry your mom, and this is my contribution to Christmas dinner.”

“Yeah, how could that go wrong,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. Richie’s eyes shine behind his glasses, and Eddie thinks he hasn’t had such a good time in years. He’d forgotten what it was even like.

Eventually it’s late. Very late. And his phone has been blowing up in his pocket. Eddie doesn’t want to leave and go back to Myra. He wants to just sit here with Richie, eating too many dumplings and talking about nothing like there never was a gap of twenty-five years between them, like they still speak all the time.

But he has to go. They pay the bill and walk slowly out to the front. Richie waves down a cab and turns back to Eddie. “It was good to see you,” he says. He kicks lightly at a piece of trash on the sidewalk. “I actually—I thought it would be weird, but it wasn’t.”

“I thought so too,” Eddie says.

Richie grins. Not as wide as he has been all night. It’s softer. “Well, you’ve got my number so, you know, don’t hesitate to text or something.”

“Same,” Eddie answers. They hug, and Eddie remembers being kids, how often they would touch. Richie was so tactile, never thinking twice about throwing an arm around him, pulling him along by the wrist, rubbing his back when Eddie would work himself up into a panic attack or some other rant. Eddie wishes the hug could last longer, but all he can have is a quick squeeze, just the barest lingering that he hopes Richie understands.

They break apart, Richie squeezing Eddie’s shoulder briefly. He gets it. Then he slides into the cab, and Eddie watches the taillights until it turns around a corner.

``

Eddie probably spends more time staring at his phone on his desk than doing actual work. It lights up as much as it normally does with all his usual notifications, but this time, every flash catches his breath in his throat.

None of them are Richie, and he refuses to analyze why that has him so disappointed.

Eddie taps a finger nervously on the screen. He shouldn’t be disappointed. Despite how enjoyable catching up with him had been, it’s not like they’re still best friends. And even if they were, they saw each other literally under twenty-four hours ago. There’s no reason at all to be disappointed to have not heard from Richie since, especially when it’s not like Eddie’s made an attempt today.

So Eddie pushes his phone across the desk to a space he won’t notice it so much. Which of course doesn’t happen. He’s so achingly aware of it, even as he pours through reports. The next time it flashes, he lunges for it, and his heart skips.

> [Richie]: hey bro, good catch up yesterday. thanks for calling

Eddie pulls in a deep breath, relieved and also a bit ashamed of himself. He’s acting like an idiot.

> [Eddie]: Yeah, it really was. I hope I didn’t keep you out too late. You said you have a show?
> 
> [Richie]: later tonite yeah but lucky me i get to sleep in and then try and fail to sleep more on the plane
> 
> [Eddie]: If you’re looking for me to feel sorry for you, try again.
> 
> [Richie]: ouch spaghetti
> 
> [Richie]: ouch
> 
> [Richie]: 🥺😩
> 
> [Richie]: you should feel bad for me. there’s never enough leg room
> 
> [Eddie]: It’s not the airline’s fault that you came down a beanstalk.
> 
> [Richie]: ur jealous bc your still the short one
> 
> [Eddie]: And don’t call me that.
> 
> [Richie]: try to guess what i saved yur number as 😏
> 
> [Eddie]: If it’s son-in-law, I’m going to hunt you down, murder you, and they won’t find your body.
> 
> [Richie]: LEGIT LMFAO 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Eddie grins at the phone. Why did he even bother feeling so nervous? Just like last night, it’s easy to keep texting with Richie. It’s easy to roll his eyes but still smile at how Richie texts with too many emojis and misspellings and a complete and blatant lack of respect for punctuation.

He’s lucky it’s a lax day with the Chicago partners having left because he barely puts his phone down the rest of the afternoon. They just keep talking like they never let up. They joke, and Richie knows far too many memes that Eddie has to keep looking up. Before he knows it, the time for him to pack up for the day has come, but he doesn’t move. He just keeps texting until a bit later when Richie apologizes and says he has to get ready for his show. Eddie wishes him luck. Then he hesitates for a second but goes ahead.

> [Eddie]: Let me know when you land safe.

He stares at the dots on the bottom of the screen. It seems to take forever.

> [Richie]: will do bud

Eddie is asleep when Richie lands in Boston, but the text is waiting for him in the morning when he wakes up.

``

Eddie does not have a Snapchat, nor does he know anything about how it works, but it only takes about a week of pestering from Richie before he sets one up. He realizes his mistake quickly when Richie starts sending him pictures of small angry dogs and babies throwing tantrums all with the text “is this u” slapped across.

Eddie responds with pictures of piles of trash that haven’t been collected yet.

They talk often, so much so that Eddie thinks they never let more than a single day go by without sending something. Eddie smiles at his phone far more often, and Myra notices one evening and asks him what’s so funny. He tells her that a coworker sent a Buzzfeed article about what kind of sandwich are you—actually a quiz that he and Richie took the other day and both were insulted by their results. Myra says that’s childish, and Eddie goes into his settings to change his text banners to only let him know when there’s an alert, no previews of the message.

``

His phone lights up with an incoming call. For a brief moment, Eddie wants to sigh. He’s told Myra plenty of times that he can’t be taking personal calls at work. But then he glances down and sees Richie’s face, saved from one of the Snaps he sent a couple of weeks ago featuring him wrapped up in a thick bubble jacket with two scarves, purple sunglasses, standing in front of the Bean and drinking a giant frappuccino.

Eddie jumps up from his desk to shut the door to his office. “Hey, dipshit,” he says.

“Spaghetti,” Richie returns. “So I’m hosting SNL this weekend. You free to get lunch or something?”

“I could make it work,” Eddie says.

“I’ll pick the place this time,” Richie offers.

“You ought to after last time,” Eddie says. “Acting like you don’t know places when you lived here for almost ten years.”

“City’s always moving, always changing, baby,” Richie says, and Eddie lets out an almost breathless laugh. “I’m flying in Wednesday and gonna be doing writings and rehearsals, so Sunday’s ok?”

“Yeah,” Eddie answers. Myra volunteers at church brunches. She doesn’t like when he doesn’t go with her, but it’s not unheard of. He won’t even really have make up much of a story. “Yeah, see you then.”

They hang up, and Eddie keeps catching himself smiling as he fills out new reports.

``

Myra is upset that he says he isn’t going to church with her. He doesn’t have much of an excuse to give her. Which is dumb. Why can’t he just tell her he’s meeting up with an old friend? Why does his stomach feel so hollow at the thought of Myra knowing anything about Richie? It’s not a big deal. They’re friends. He’s allowed to have friends.

But he doesn’t want her to know. He just wants this for himself. He doesn’t want her to have any access to Richie, know anything about him and use whatever knowledge she can to try and keep Eddie from being around Richie in whatever ways he can.

So she leaves for church angry. She might complain about him to her friends there, looking for them to agree with her that he isn’t supporting her as he should be. Or maybe she won’t say anything about his absence. Maybe she’ll make something up about how he doesn’t feel well and maintain the front that they’re a perfectly happy couple, not two fools who would rather sit in something ugly but familiar than go off into the unknown alone.

Eddie showers and heads out to meet Richie. It’s a spot in Brooklyn so thankfully he doesn’t have to cross the bridge into Manhattan. It gives him more time out. He arrives only a moment before Richie, who shakes his hair wildly as they walk inside. “Jesus, it’s cold,” he complains, pulling his coat tighter around him.

“You grew up in Maine, and you live in Chicago,” Eddie says dryly.

“Yeah, but I’ve filmed in LA, and that’s the climate I deserve,” he says.

A waiter shows them to a table and offers them the brunch menu. Richie takes it and eagerly starts scanning. “Brunch,” Eddie asks.

“Hell yeah, brunch,” Richie says. He peeks over the menu. “Why? What’s wrong with brunch?”

Eddie shrugs. “I just don’t ever get it, I guess,” he says.

“Well you’re sure as hell doing it today,” Richie says and looks up at the waiter. “Gonna need some mimosas, light on the orange juice.”

“Bottomless,” the waiter asks.

Richie nods enthusiastically and dives back into the menu. “Now the question becomes sweet or savory or both.”

“You might be almost forty, but I still feel like someone letting you have sugar is a bad idea,” Eddie teases.

“Remember how twitchy you used to get on twinkies,” Richie shoots back.

“No one can compare to the king,” Eddie says, picking up the menu to start scanning for himself. He ends up with a veggie omelette and home fries while Richie gets a stack of creme brûlée French toast.

Eddie takes the menu from Richie to hand over to the waiter. “So you did like a cameo on SNL last night? How was that?”

Richie pauses with his mimosa halfway to his mouth. “I hosted. You didn’t watch?” Eddie makes a face. “Rude!”

“You had the attention of an entire live audience,” Eddie says. “Plus all viewers at home. Did you really need me?”

“It would have been nice,” Richie grumbles.

Eddie hums in a disinterested sort of way, and Richie stares at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re doing the face,” Richie accuses.

“What face,” Eddie asks.

“That face where you like pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about to irritate me,” Richie says.

“It would serve you right,” Eddie says. “I’ve got years to make up for.”

Richie’s eyes narrow further, and it looks hilarious behind his glasses. Eddie feels the corner of his mouth tick up. Richie points at him. “Did you or did you not watch the show last night?”

“You should consider Stefon’s hair for your regular look. It’s more put together than that rat’s nest you’ve got now.”

“Bastard,” Richie squeals a little too loudly, and Eddie laughs. “You’re not a nice person.”

“Where’s the fun in that,” Eddie asks. Richie throws a sugar packet at him. Eddie swats it out of the air. “Grow up.”

“Never,” Richie declares.

The food comes a little later, but the conversation barely dies down. Richie tells him some of the dumb antics of the week, jokes and sketches that didn’t make it into the final episode. Eddie has nothing anywhere near as interesting to follow up with, but Richie still listens attentively, making jokes here and there about how boring Eddie’s job sounds. He’s not wrong.

They finish eating and pay the bill. Outside they both seem to linger, neither wanting to be the first to call a cab. “When are you flying out,” Eddie asks.

“In the evening. Still have an hour or so to kill before I need to have all my shit together.” His hands are shoved into his pockets. He pushes up on his toes and then falls back onto his heels, rocking a few times.

“Wanna walk around,” Eddie asks. If Richie still has free time, Eddie wants it.

“Sure,” Richie says.

They walk aimlessly along the sidewalk, turning into a nearby park. Some kids run around playing, their parents huddled up on nearby benches. There’s old snow on the ground, and the kids do their best to make snowballs, but it’s mostly mud.

Eddie and Richie just follow the paths, conversation as aimless as their pace. They come close to bumping shoulders a few times. It’s hard to think about the cold with Richie right there. His hands are deep in his pockets, arms tight at his side. Not as loose and flailing as he was as a kid, almost like he’s trying to respect Eddie’s personal space. Eddie wouldn’t mind if he didn’t.

The snowflakes start falling in light flutters, but within a minute it’s coming down thickly. The kids down the path behind them all scream with delight. “Well, shit,” Richie says. His glasses are already fogging up. He pulls them off and squints up at the sky.

When he looks back down at Eddie, Eddie is so glad Richie can’t see for shit, because Eddie knows he’s almost gaping. The snow builds up in Richie’s hair, making it curl just a bit more. There are little flurries on his eyelashes. The white falling all around him makes Eddie think he’s in a dream, one he doesn’t ever want to wake up from because Richie is beautiful like this.

Beautiful?

Eddie pulls in a cold lungful of air. Yeah, Richie is beautiful. Scruffy and still some kind of absolute goblin, but he’s beautiful all the same. Eddie’s heart picks up as he stares, really stares and commits Richie’s face to memory, looks for traces of the kid he used to know to see exactly what all has changed. No more lingering baby fat. His jaw is square and strong, and he never seems to look like he’s found time to shave. His hair is a bit thinner, but still falls in waves and curls. And his eyes. Squinting against the bright light of day and the gathering snow. A perfect sort of blue.

Beautiful.

Eddie only manages to tear his eyes away when Richie puts his glasses back on. “Still shit,” he says.

“Get contacts,” Eddie shoots, hoping his racing heart can’t be heard in his voice or seen on his face.

“Hate ‘em,” Richie says.

“Then suck it up,” Eddie says.

Richie flips him off and crouches down to scoop up as much snow as he can. He throws it in Eddie’s face without even trying to form a proper snowball.

“Asshole,” Eddie cries, laughing. He drops to the ground, gathering snow himself. Richie squeals and jumps back, looking for more. They throw handfuls of the soft, new powder at each other, everything they can get their hands on.

“Ow, foul,” Richie cries when Eddie lands a shot to his face. “Glasses!”

“No mercy,” Eddie cackles.

“This is a war crime,” Richie hollers, shoving the glasses into his pocket. He flings snow blindly at Eddie. They run circles around each other, giggling like kids and trying not to trip.

It doesn’t last long. Eddie’s boot hits a stick, and he lands hard on the ground. “Shit,” Richie says, hurrying over. He leans over Eddie, wet hair clinging to his pink face. “Shit, you ok, man?”

Eddie laughs breathlessly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, might have a bruised ass tomorrow, but I’m good.”

“You’re a dishonor to the human race, is what you are,” Richie says with a wide grin. “You got your ass kicked by a dude who is legally blind without his glasses.”

“I got my ass kicked by a stick. You had nothing to do with it.” Richie laughs and holds out a hand to help Eddie up.

Eddie takes it, and even under the leather of their gloves he can feel the warmth of Richie’s hand. Richie hauls him up, and Eddie barely stops himself from falling into Richie’s space. He looks up quickly, just to see how much taller Richie is. A decent amount, under a half foot for sure, but enough that Eddie would have to pull him down to kiss him.

The thought sends a bolt of electricity through him, and Eddie drops Richie’s hand and steps back. It’s achingly cold. Richie squints at him, and Eddie tries to make his face be something neutral and not betray this intrusive thought that’s wormed its way inside his head.

Richie pulls his glasses back out, trying to clean them off, but it’s not much use. They just sort of stare at each other, and Richie asks, “When’s the last time you had a snowball fight?”

Probably with you, Eddie thinks, but he can’t say that. Not right now. Not with how hard he’s trying to not look at Richie’s lips and in the process staring too deep into his eyes. “Maine,” Eddie guesses. Not quite so specific but still true.

Richie smiles softly, almost like he knows. Then he glances down at his watch. “Shit,” he says, brows furrowing. “I need to head back.”

Disappointment clenches at Eddie’s heart. “Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Me too, I guess.” They head out of the park, slower than they probably should. Eddie can’t tell if it’s all him lingering or if Richie is too just a bit. Back out on the street, they hail a cab. Richie hugs him, and Eddie inhales deeply, memorizing how far his arms wrap around Richie and Richie’s around him. He memorizes the feel of the warmth coming from Richie even under his coat. They say good-bye, and Eddie watches the taillights disappear once again.

``

Myra still isn’t back home when Eddie gets in, thank Christ. The house feels overwhelmingly hot, more than it should even after being out in freezing temperatures. Eddie kicks off his boots and hangs up his coat. He heads upstairs for the shower and turns the water on cold. He steps under the stream, and still he’s hot. The too recent memory of Richie’s body pressed against his has his heart pounding. Richie, standing under falling snow. Snowflakes kissing his lashes. Glowing even against all the white.

Eddie’s fists hit the tile wall. What is happening to him? What is he thinking? He’s hot and aching, and he can’t stop himself from reaching down and wrapping a hand around his cock. He pulls in a sharp breath as he strokes and thinks of Richie. Blue eyes. Pink cheeks. Laughter. Stupid texts with stupid pictures. Rumpled clothes and stage lights.

He comes gasping, and downstairs Myra calls out that she’s home.

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Ok. Ok. So he masturbated to thoughts of his childhood best friend. So what. It’s not—people picture people when they do that. That’s a thing. And sometimes the things or people they picture don’t have anything to do with anything really. It’s just there in the moment.

Except Eddie never really pictures anything. His thoughts are usually vague ones of warmth and caressing touches. He doesn’t picture specific people, especially not people he knows. Especially not Richie.

Because Richie is a man. And Eddie is married. To a woman. And sure, Myra has never really sparked any burning passion in him or he in her. They’re together because—Eddie can’t remember why he proposed to her. Because it seemed like the thing to do probably. The thing that was expected of him.

But it’s fine. It’s a one time thing. He was just worked up over—well. He’d thought Richie was beautiful standing in the snow. He’d thought about kissing him. It would have been easy with how close they were standing. It would have been so easy to slip his hand around the back of Richie’s neck and pull him down and—

Ok. No. What in the hell is the matter with him?

He wishes they would, but the thoughts can’t go away, not with Richie sending him Snaps from the plane. Eddie tries to ignore his phone buzzing in his pocket, but he can’t. He has to take it out. One Snap is Richie trying to strategically get a picture of the people beside him. He’s twisted in the seat, the camera only getting part of his face, mostly just his eye blown comically wide. The couple in the seats beside him are eating Pappadeaux. His caption is “this is a criminal crime” with angry stickers all around. Another is a video on loop of him standing cramped in the far too small bathroom, wagging his eyebrows, and captioned with “Mile High Club BayBEE!!”

There is absolutely not one single thing sexy or attractive about that, but Eddie immediately pictures being on the plane himself, shoving Richie through the door. The bathroom would be barely big enough for him, so including Richie means it would be almost impossible to move around. But that’s sort of the idea, being forced so close to each other that they’d be touching everywhere. Eddie imagines running fingers through Richie’s hair, titling his head back to kiss his throat and jaw, skin rough with stubble. He wonders if Richie would be loud. It seems like he would be, but Eddie can just imagine breathy little moans and gasps.

Eddie shoves his phone back in his pocket. He has to stop this. What is wrong with him? He is sitting in the same room as his wife and fantasizing about another man.

And just—where did this come from? Richie is a man. And even if that wasn’t something out of left field, there are far more attractive men out there than Richie Tozier. Eddie tries to think of someone, anyone from an endless sea of cookie cutter attractive men on tv or in movies. Someone like—ok, Brad Pitt. Women like Brad Pitt. Eddie tries to conjure up his face, but he can’t. He can’t even think of what the big deal is.

But Richie, ridiculous hair, stupidly big forehead, thick glasses, how his eyes crinkle up when he's really smiling, everything about that is so appealing.

His phone buzzes again, and Eddie gets up. He tells Myra he’s going to the gym for awhile. Maybe he can just run whatever this is out of his system.

``

About a month later, Eddie is selected to go to Chicago for a round of meetings. He has no idea how he holds it together. His chest fills up with a mixture of dread and elation so heavy it might give him an asthma attack. Elation because he’ll get to see Richie. Dread because he’ll get to see Richie, and he’s still having those thoughts.

It’s worse. Every hour he gets caught up texting when he should be doing work. Every exchange of stupid pictures and stupider comments. It fills up some hole in him that he knew was there but just never understood how big it was. And Richie fills it so easily, even from this distance.

He could just not say anything. He doesn’t have to let Richie know he’ll be in town. There’s no obligation there. But Eddie wants to. He wants to see Richie so badly it hurts.

Back in his office, Eddie has to text, because he doesn’t trust his voice.

> [Eddie]: Hey, I’m going to be in Chicago for a work deal next Wednesday to Saturday. You in town?

Waiting for Richie to text back is agonizing. Eddie stares at the screen, eyes flicking back and forth between the clock and the bottom of the thread, waiting for the bubble to appear. It takes nearly six minutes, each of those minutes feeling like an hour.

> [Richie]: yeah for sure! you need anything like a place to stay or a ride from the airport?
> 
> [Eddie]: No, the company provides all that. But I was thinking we could do dinner one night if you’re free. Or something else. It’s your town. You pick.
> 
> [Richie]: yeah ill come up with something

Eddie has the stupid, fleeting thought of “it’s a date.” No, it absolutely is not. What the fuck? It’s not a date. It’s just spending time with a friend.

A friend who he thinks about far too much. A friend who he wants to touch in ways he has never touched his wife or any girlfriend.

Eddie thinks he might be going a little bit crazy. How else to explain all this? He’s just snapped a little bit. Too much pressure at work. Pressure and strain at home. A city too big and suffocating. No real outlets for anything other than running, and that hasn’t worked very well in years.

It has to just be the novelty of Richie. That Eddie’s been around all the same people for so long, and then Richie came along. He’s known Richie since they were in first grade. Richie just knows Eddie in ways that everyone else in his life doesn’t. Richie knew him as that neurotic little kid who could never stop spouting off everything that could go wrong due to any given environment or injury. And Eddie doesn’t think he’s changed that much. He’s still neurotic. He’s still angry. He’s still trapped.

At least Richie really knows that about him. And that has to be the reason Eddie’s unable to stop thinking like this. No one else knows him like that, and he’s just desperate.

It’s pretty shitty, as far as excuses go.

``

Eddie spends the entire plane ride holding tight to a puke bag. His stomach is rolling for a number of reasons. The plane itself and the diseases all likely trapped inside because God only knows who was sitting in this seat last. God only knows the last time this thing was cleaned, even half-assed cleaned.

The fights he’s been having for nearly a week with Myra. She doesn’t want him going anywhere, certainly not on a plane. She doesn’t ever seem to understand when he has to do things for work, and he can’t grasp why. It’s normal for people to travel for work. That’s a thing. And it’s good. If he’s being sent out somewhere, it means he’s trusted. More responsibility, higher up the ladder. But she frets, and she worries, and he doesn’t know what he can possibly say to make her be ok with this. Or, hell, even just keep it all to herself. He’d settle for that.

And then there’s Richie. Who is just. Eddie doesn’t know. Richie just fills him up. Memories of him, ideas. Eddie refuses to try to count the number of times in the past month he’s gotten off to thoughts of Richie’s eyes or smile or imaginings of what really touching him would be like, all the vivid dreams he’s had. He refuses to count, because he can’t deal with the actual number. He wants to stop this, because Christ what the fuck, but he can’t.

It’s creepy, he tries to tell himself, not focusing on the other, far more glaring problem. It’s creepy to think about a friend like that, and he needs to fucking stop it.

The plane lands, and Eddie feels like he can breathe a little better inside the airport. Not well, but at least he isn’t still stuck in a metal tube at thirty-five thousand feet. He finally loses the fight about pulling out his phone while waiting for a cab. He texts Richie that he’s landed, that tomorrow will be the best bet for a free evening where they can meet up, and Richie responds with one of those stupid Bitmojis. He’s been trying to get Eddie to make one because “they can be little buds on Snapchat,” but Eddie refuses.

He gets into a cab, and only as they come upon the block of the office does he think to send Myra a text too.

``

Eddie glances down at his phone after the first meeting of the morning to see a text from Richie.

> [Richie]: hope you slept well eddie spaghetti bc we’ve got a night planned. i’ll pick you up so drop me a pin or something. art institute and then dinner
> 
> [Eddie]: Ok Ferris. Will we be meeting the Sausage King of Chicago too?
> 
> [Richie]: 
> 
> [Eddie]: New York isn’t exactly low on museums.
> 
> [Richie]: uh huh and whens the last time u went to one my dude?? 🤔
> 
> [Eddie]: Fuck off.
> 
> [Richie]: that’s what i thought 😙
> 
> [Eddie]: 🖕
> 
> [Richie]: ☺️💘

The day takes forever to finish in a way Eddie hasn’t felt since the last day before summer vacation as a kid. He feels fidgety, itchy under his skin. He cracks his knuckles numerous times, only belatedly worrying that he’s going to cause early arthritis. His stomach is as uneasy today as it was on the airplane. But underneath all the nerves, he’s just excited to see Richie.

He sends a text the second the last meeting is over. Richie responds that he’s about ten minutes out. Eddie packs up his briefcase, and as he closes it, he scowls at it. He doesn’t want to cart this thing around all evening. He calls to Jack, asking if he can leave it in Jack’s office overnight. Jack says that’s fine and tells him to have a nice evening.

Richie’s car, a bright red sports car, is waiting on the street when Eddie walks out of the office. He climbs right in and says, “Compensating for something?”

“Fuck you,” Richie laughs.

They fight through the traffic to make it to the Art Institute, Richie taking the time to loudly contemplate how boring Eddie’s job must be and how funny he looks in his little suit.

“Have you ever looked in a mirror, even once,” Eddie shoots back. He wiggles around, struggling out of his coat to remove his suit jacket and tie. He lays them as neatly as he can in the back.

“Don’t know what your mirror tells you, but my mirror says I look good,” Richie says.

“Your mirror is either a fucking liar or some kind of magic,” Eddie says. “I mean, look at you. Do you even own a razor or a brush?”

Richie gasps dramatically, clutching a hand over his heart. “It’s called being rugged,” he cries.

Eddie hums. “It’s one late rent check away from being a street bum.” Richie snorts loudly, clearing his throat after and muttering a little “ow.” Eddie grins. All the day’s tension and nerves have slipped away. Now he’s just with Richie and having a good time.

“Good old wintery mix,” Richie says after they park and get out of the car. He shoves a green plaid trapper hat over his messy hair. His glasses immediately fog over. He slips them into his pocket and fumbles around the car. “If you let me trip over something, I will find some way to put Nair in your shampoo. I have resources.”

“Sure you do, Trashmouth,” Eddie says.

They’re both a bit of a mess. Eddie keeps Richie from stepping on any ice patches, but his own shoes don’t do him any favors. “Not the best choice,” Richie says.

“And what else am I supposed to do,” Eddie asks, grabbing at the railing of the stairs to steady himself. “I can’t wear snow boots with a suit.”

“What do you normally do,” Richie asks.

“Park in the parking garage of my building because I work in downtown fucking New York. What do you think I do?”

“Pardon me,” Richie says with some snootier version of his old British Guy voice. “How very fancy you are.”

“Dipshit," Eddie says, holding the door open for Richie to step inside first. Richie purchases their tickets and rents a locker to store their coats. The museum closes in two hours. Not enough time to see everything, but still plenty to get an experience.

They walk through exhibits of statues, sculpted from marble and gold. They read description plaques, commenting on some of the more interesting facts. They see all the big famous pieces, the _American Gothic, Water Lillies, Nighthawks, A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, The Bedroom, The Old Guitarist._

They give those paintings the sort of reverence they deserve until Richie spots a Georgia O’Keeffe and starts giggling. “Oh my God,” Eddie hisses. “Are you twelve?” Richie grins widely at him and starts to bring two fingers held up in a V to his mouth, and Eddie pushes him away into another room before Richie can complete the gesture.

They wander through a hall of medieval paintings, and Richie starts giggling again. “Lord, what now,” Eddie asks.

“My manager’s oldest kids, twin girls about fourteen,” Richie says. “They do this thing that they say a lot of kids do. They get pictures from this era and add captions like—“ He points at a Madonna and Christ. “—when your baby comes out of the womb looking like he’s already got three kids and a mortgage.”

Eddie snorts loudly, slapping his hands over his face as it echoes in the quiet room and the only other occupant turns to give them a look. Richie is still giggling. “Fuck you,” Eddie hisses, his shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

“It’s so good though,” Richie says. “Like, look at this one. Why does baby Jesus have an eight-pack?”

“God, or this,” Eddie says, pointing at another. “He looks like he took twelve shots of vodka, and they all just kicked in.”

Richie shoves one hand to his mouth, his other fist bumping Eddie’s shoulder. It’s ridiculous and immature, but that’s how they go through the entire medieval section. They come up with a stupid caption for every single one. Richie is far better at it, but Eddie is also sure he’s probably stealing some jokes from the kids.

Two men on a battlefield, one trying to lift up the other. “That one is my alarm trying to get me up every morning.”

Another Madonna and Child, this one with Jesus’s face pressed right against Mary’s. “Pigeons in the park when you’re down to the crust of your pizza.”

A man playing a fiddle and another rolled inexplicably into a complete circle. “Violin solo going so hard you turn into a bagel.”

A woman who is probably meant to be looking up in reverent prayer, her arms spread wide. “Ok, fine, I’ll just do everything around here.”

The infant Christ, standing framed in holy light, holding a cross with one hand, the other pointed to the sky. “Saturday Night Fever.”

A bard with a lute standing before a group of noblewomen. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

Eddie doesn’t know how they don’t get kicked out. They’re both breathless with laughter, clinging to each other’s sleeves, pulling each other towards new paintings to make fun of. They only finally calm down in a room with an Andy Warhol collection.

Eddie wipes tears from his eyes. His face hurts from how wide he’s been smiling, and he might as well have done a hundred sit ups with how sore his stomach feels from laughing.

“Christ,” Richie says, holding up his glasses to wipe at his own eyes. “Seriously, we’re like both twelve.”

They resume their viewing a bit more like adults, walking leisurely through the Warhol exhibit and then a photograph gallery. Then they come upon some abstract pieces. Eddie makes a face, but Richie goes quiet.

Eddie watches as he steps up to the first painting. Richie stares, his eyes trailing along the strokes of color. He takes in every part of the painting before looking at the description. That’s his process for all of them. He observes first, then after reading the description he either nods or adopts a thoughtful look. On those instances he gives the painting another careful glance.

Eddie trails along with him, far more interested in Richie’s face than any of the art. Eddie is not an artistic person. He knows there’s value in these paintings, meanings and messages, but he’s never particularly cared about those things. He sort of understands things like daVinci or Michelangelo or portraits of historical figures, works of amazing accuracy and visuals that have stood up against the tests of time. But things like this, abstraction with no real imagery, he’s never understood the point of it. He’s always just seen it as splashes of color on canvas, something a kid could do. He’s sure there’s more technique to it than that, but he's never really given it credit as art.

But watching Richie see these paintings, it gives him pause. Richie’s face is so open and vulnerable. Has Richie always liked art like this? Eddie can’t remember. Not like there were any real art museums in Derry. But Richie sees these paintings in a way Eddie can’t. He sees the message. He sees the meaning.

Well, Richie had always been smarter than they really gave him credit for. Straight As as long as Eddie knew him. But Eddie thinks that this isn’t really book smarts. Richie is seeing deeper than that. It’s something emotional.

Richie lifts a hand towards one painting, fingers ghosting along with a bold streak of red, hovering where the red meets a stormy mess of black and gray. He chews at his bottom lip—Eddie stares transfixed—and his eyes are stormy behind his glasses. Whatever Richie sees in this painting, it’s painful.

He backs away from it, his eyes wet. Not tears of laughter, like in the medieval halls. It’s something deep inside that hurts him. His hand, still stretched out, is shaking, his breath shallow. His worried chewing on his bottom lip becomes a hard bite, and Eddie can’t stand it.

Eddie steps into Richie’s space. He wraps his fingers around the wrist of Richie’s outstretched arm. His other comes up to cup Richie’s cheek. Richie blinks at him, a tear falling from his eye, and Eddie kisses him.

It’s almost chaste, as unobtrusive as a kiss could possibly be. Just the press of Eddie’s lips to Richie’s. But Richie is frozen under him, and Eddie’s brain jolts to process what’s going on. What he just did.

Eddie pulls back, and Richie stares down at him with impossibly wide eyes. Shock. Confusion. Because Eddie just kissed him. Eddie just fucking kissed him. Holy Jesus.

Eddie jumps back. The perfect warmth that had been there just a moment ago, it’s replaced by a frigid chill. His heart sinks into his stomach. What did he just do? Oh God. Oh fuck.

Apologize. He needs to apologize, tell Richie he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry, it will never happen again, please just forget it ever happened at all, but his voice doesn’t work, and his throat is closing up.

Richie just stands there.

Eddie turns on his heel and all but runs from the room. He moves as fast as he can without breaking into a full sprint. He gets turned around in a few rooms, but eventually he finds the lobby, and he bursts out of the doors. It’s freezing outside. His suit jacket is in Richie’s car, and his coat is in a locker. It doesn’t matter. He just needs to get away. He slips on the stairs, grabbing harshly at the railing to keep from busting his ass. He gets to the street, waving wildly for a cab. One stops, and Eddie bolts inside.

His throat works long enough to give the cabbie the name of his hotel, and they pull away from the museum, away from where Eddie has ruined everything.

``

Back in his hotel room, Eddie thinks he’s going to throw up. What the fuck did he just do?

He kissed Richie. He fucking kissed another man, one of his oldest friends. What the fuck?

Eddie pulls at his hair. He doesn’t understand how he did this. He’s not exactly a bust a move kind of guy, and that he just did this, no prompting, just because Richie was looking sad at some paintings? Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

This is so much worse than what’s been going on before. So much worse than getting caught up in stupid text conversations. So much worse than a growing infatuation he refuses to analyze. So much worse than picturing Richie while he’s jacking off. He’s crossed a line— _the_ fucking line—and it was so stupid, and he’s ruined everything.

His chest is heavy, like someone’s sitting on it. He can’t breathe. Eddie fumbles to his suitcase, throwing things out as he digs around for his medicine bag. He grabs the inhaler and takes a deep huff. It doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t help. This isn’t asthma. This is a fucking panic attack because he just fucking kissed Richie fucking Tozier in the middle of the fucking Art Institute of Chicago.

Eddie’s eyes burn with hot tears. They spill over, and he gasps in sobs that rattle his bones. What was he thinking? Clearly he wasn’t. Richie. Richie is never going to speak to him again. Eddie just destroyed the one thing that was giving him any happiness at all.

He can’t eat, and he can’t sleep. All he can do is lie on the bed in the dark, listening to the sounds of the city below as tears run from his eyes. He’s scared. He’s so scared about what this means. He kissed Richie, and for a brief second, before his brain caught up with him, it had been perfect. He’d felt so warm and right, but then the ice crept in. He saw what he was doing, how Richie was looking at him.

Shocked. (Angry.) Confused. (Disgusted.)

He fucking ruined everything.

``

He doesn’t sleep at all. His alarm goes off, and Eddie rubs at his eyes. It takes a monumental effort to pull himself out of the bed. His reflection in the mirror looks like complete hammered shit. Eyes red and swollen. Bags under his eyes heavier than usual. Skin both pale and blotchy.

He goes through the motions, showering and shaving, and it doesn’t help. He thinks he looks worse, like the soap washed away whatever barrier he had left, and now he’s just standing there, his heart and mind naked for all the world to see his pain and shame.

He goes to the wardrobe and pulls out a fresh shirt and pair of pants. He doesn’t have his suit jacket. He left it in Richie’s car, and his coat is at the museum. Well. He’ll just deal with it. At least he left his briefcase at the office. At least he managed to not fuck up everything.

The cab gets him to the office at about 8:15, give or take a few minutes. He pays and hurries inside. It’s so fucking cold out. He has the ridiculous thought of a teenager: cold like the ice around his heart. Stupid. Stupid but true. He heads for the elevators, and a voice from the front desk calls out, “Mr. Kaspbrak?” Eddie turns. The receptionist stands, waving at him. He walks over. “Your coat and jacket, Mr. Kaspbrak,” she says, pulling them neatly off the chair beside her. “You just missed your friend bringing them back.”

Eddie takes them, slipping into the jacket. He murmurs a thanks and turns around again. Richie was here. Eddie missed him by moments. A blessing or a curse? He doesn’t know what he would say, what he could say to ever explain himself or begin to make this right. There’s nothing. But the thought of never seeing Richie again, the thought alone squeezes his heart tight. It’s unbearable.

On his floor, he gets his briefcase from Jack’s office. He pours a coffee and takes it into the conference room. He pulls out reports and drinks the coffee in big gulps. It’s terrible. He can’t really taste much beyond the burn, but whatever it is, it’s awful. His stomach rolls a bit. There’s nothing else in there to ease the settlement of the grainy sludge.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms. He tries to make sense of the words on his documents, but he might as well be reading hieroglyphs.

“Christ, Ed,” Daniel says when he walks in, two of the Chicago partners behind him. “You look awful. What did you do last night?”

Eddie tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. He only ruined his life last night, but he can’t exactly say that. He can’t even think of a good excuse. He rubs at his eyes again.

“Son, you need to go back to the hotel,” the Chicago VP says. Eddie opens his mouth, but before he can make any sort of attempt at a protest, the VP raises a hand. “A light breeze could knock you over right now. You’ve got some hell of a bug. We appreciate you trying to come in, but it’s no use to anyone you being here and sick. If you feel you need to, you can work on reports there. We’ll keep you in on the conference calls. But you need to go.”

Eddie nods numbly. He gathers his work, accepts a folder from Daniel, and pulls on his coat. The VP claps him on the back. “Get yourself better, Ed.”

“See you back home, Ed,” Daniel says, and Eddie just nods.

``

Back at the hotel, all Eddie can do is try and fail to work. All he can do is wallow in misery. And then, around 7:30, his phone lights up with a text from Richie containing a pin for a coffee bar and a message that reads, “we need to talk. 8:30, before you head to the airport,” and then all Eddie can do is panic.

``

The weather is shit the next morning. More sleet coming down from rolling gray skies. The cab lets Eddie off just down the block from the cafe. He still needs a minute. He can’t just walk in there.

Eddie holds the lapels of his coat closed tight, his other hand clenched in a death grip on the handle of his suitcase. The cold and the wet jolt him a little more awake. He hadn’t really slept much last night either. He’d been too busy trying to not have a heart attack and think up what he could say to Richie to salvage this. Because he can’t lose him. He’s been drowning for so long, and he needs Richie like he needs air.

It takes several deep lungfuls of freezing air before Eddie starts to shuffle down the sidewalk. As he gets closer, he can see Richie standing inside. Eddie stops and watches him. Richie isn’t really facing the window. He stands by the door, looking towards the back of the place. His coat and hat are still on. Gloves off and he stands biting at his cuticles. He must pick too hard because he suddenly jerks his hand away from his mouth, scowling. He shakes it out and brings the finger back up to soothe away the blood.

Eddie’s eyes sting with tears. Those lips that he only touched so briefly. The brief touch that has fucked everything up. He clenches his eyes shut, willing the tears to recede. He wants to turn around, turn and run away as fast as he can. If he runs, he won’t have to ever hear Richie tell him to fuck off. It’s the coward’s choice, and he’s always been a coward.

But it’s Richie, and Richie deserves the chance to tell Eddie to get out of his life. Eddie fucked this up, and he has to give Richie at least that much.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, opening the door and stepping inside the cafe. Richie whirls on his heel, eyes wide as he sees Eddie. For a moment, they both just stare. Eddie wishes he could do something, say something, smile at him. But he can’t. He just stands there, his throat closing around the need to throw himself down and beg forgiveness, beg that Richie lets this go.

Richie clears his throat. The cafe has plenty of customers inside, but the noise is jarringly loud to Eddie’s ears. Richie bites on his bottom lip, chewing for a long couple of seconds before he inclines his head to a row of booths that lead back towards the restrooms. The area is mostly empty. They start walking back, and one of the baristas calls, “We’ll be right with you guys.” Richie gives her a stiff nod before sliding into the furthest booth. Eddie parks his suitcase and sits opposite him.

They sit there for an eternity, just staring at each other. They only get as far as distracting themselves with taking off coats and scarves. It’s so quiet back here. It’s suffocating.

The barista comes over, and Richie’s expression does a complete one-eighty. He smiles up at her as she greets them and rattles off the seasonal specials. “I’ll take a mocha, no whip, just a bit of that creme brûlée flavor, please,” he says.

The barista turns to Eddie, and he just mutters, “Dark roast, one sugar.”

And she leaves them. Richie’s expression slides back down, something careful and guarded. They both just sit there, neither one speaking until the barista comes back with their drinks. Eddie’s hands curl around the hot mug so tightly his knuckles go white. Richie brings the cup up to his mouth, takes one large gulp, grimacing at the temperature, and says, “Ok, so what happened?”

Eddie hangs his head. “I—I don’t know, Rich. I just—you were—fuck.” He had thought about this. He had spent all night thinking of things to say, and now nothing comes to him.

“Are you—“ Richie starts.

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“But you—“ Richie swallows thickly again, and dammit, Eddie watches the way his throat moves. Richie pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You kissed me,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Eddie eyes sting with hot tears again. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin—I just—please, Richie, please, please don’t hate me.”

Richie moves immediately, pushing his mug out of the way and reaching for Eddie’s hands. Eddie loosens his grip on his coffee, clinging as tight to Richie’s hands as Richie does his. “Eddie,” he says, his own eyes wet. “Eds, no. No, I don’t hate you. I couldn’t even if I tried. You’re—“ He stops, his expression as miserable as Eddie’s. “Christ, I could never.”

“Rich, I—that wasn’t the only time,” Eddie blurts out. “That wasn’t the only time I wanted to kiss you.”

Richie blinks at him, face screwed up in confusion—not disgust, never disgust. “When?”

“In the park,” Eddie says. “The snowball fight. I fell, remember, and you helped me up, and I just—the way you looked. You were so close, and I—fuck, I just thought it, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. You just—you’re on my mind constantly, and it hurts, but it’s also like really good. I just want to be around you all the time, talk to you, touch you, and I know. I know I can’t. It’s just a fucking fantasy, and you never asked for it. It’s my mess, my bullshit, and please, I just—I’ll fucking lose it if we can’t—can’t at least still be friends. Like, I just found you again, and it was a fucking godsend, I can’t—I can’t lose you again that fast.”

Eddie stops to breathe, and Richie is staring at him, eyes so big and raw and heartbroken behind his glasses. His fingers curl tighter around Eddie’s, clinging like a lifeline.

“Eds,” Richie says. “God, I—“ He stops, pulls in a shuddering breath. He closes his eyes against the wetness building up in them. “I can’t lose you either,” he whispers. “I think I’d die.”

Eddie leans forward, his chest filling with warmth for the first time in days. “Richie?”

Richie looks up. He looks as tired as Eddie feels. Probably hasn’t slept either. These couple of days seem to have aged them both, but God, he’s still so beautiful to Eddie. Richie’s lips tremble, and he says, again in a whisper, “I want you too.”

And Eddie does something that is both incredibly stupid and also the only option in the world. He stands from the booth, kicking his suitcase under the table. He grabs Richie’s sleeve, pulling him up. He pushes open the door to the nearest restroom—a family one, so hopefully no one’s bringing a baby in anytime soon—and drags Richie inside.

Eddie closes the door, locking it, pushes Richie into it, and kisses him with everything he’s got. And Richie kisses him back. It’s desperate and messy. Eddie’s skin buzzes, burning hot everywhere he’s touching Richie. He presses in closer, his hands raking through Richie’s hair, pulling down to expose his throat. Eddie attacks him with lips and tongue and teeth, and Richie whimpers. A thrill shoots down Eddie’s spine. A whimper. A soft one. Better than he had imagined.

Richie clings to Eddie’s shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt in tight fists. His hands stay there as Eddie’s trail down Richie’s chest, down his stomach, fingers finding the edge of his shirt to touch skin. Richie shivers, gasping to fill his lungs with air. Eddie brings their mouths back together. Richie never seems to be freshly shaved, and today Eddie isn’t either. Their faces are rough against each other, but it feels wonderful.

His hand slips up the back of Richie’s shirt as Eddie moves for the other side of his neck. Richie makes those same wonderful sounds, clings even tighter to Eddie like he needs him to not collapse. Eddie’s other hand cups Richie’s cheek, fingers slipping into his hair. It’s softer than Eddie thought. Softer than any sort of mess like that has a right to be.

Eddie pulls his teeth over Richie’s pulse point, dragging their hips together. Richie keens, and then Eddie’s watch beeps.

They freeze for a moment, both knowing what that means. Eddie drops his face into Richie’s neck, inhaling the scent of him. Richie’s chest heaves against his, hands still clutching Eddie’s shoulders for dear life. They stand wrapped up in each other, trying to come down, wishing they could stay there. It’s a public bathroom, and Eddie would stay here forever if it meant he could keep holding Richie. But he can’t.

“I have to go,” he whispers into Richie’s skin.

“I know,” Richie says, trembling.

Eddie pulls his head up, and Richie has tears streaming down his cheeks. “Richie,” Eddie cries, cupping his face gently. “Rich.” He wipes away the tears with his thumbs. He presses a soft kiss to his lips.

“Sorry,” Richie blubbers. “Sorry.”

“No, baby, no,” Eddie says, wrapping his arms tight around Richie, pulling his head to rest against his shoulder. He moves gentle hands over Richie’s back, his neck, and into his hair. “I’m sorry. I—“

“You have to go home,” Richie says, voice muffled. “It’s—you have to.”

“I do,” Eddie says, “but it doesn’t change—I still want you. It’s distance, and that fucking sucks, but I’m always going to want you.”

“I want this so much,” Richie says, and Eddie can barely grasp how heavy his words sound.

“You’ve got it,” Eddie says. “You’ve got me.”

“I got you, babe,” Richie says in a sing-song voice that’s too wet and rough to even begin to sound nice.

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” Eddie says, squeezing him tighter.

It’s hard to let go. It’s hard to break apart and clean the tears from Richie’s cheeks. It’s hard to leave the bathroom and gather his things and walk out of the cafe. It’s almost impossible to get into a cab. Richie is still crying, but his glasses fogging up mostly conceals it. “It’s going to be ok,” Eddie says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “We’ll get it figured out.” Richie nods, squeezing back tightly. Neither of them are wearing gloves yet. They both need this last bit of skin contact.

They can’t put it off anymore, and Eddie shuts the door to the cab behind him. He twists in his seat, keeping his eyes on Richie until the cab turns a corner.

He takes out his phone immediately. He texts Richie all the same things he said before. That it’s going to be all right, that it’s going to work, they’ll be ok. Richie texts back, and Eddie keeps responding, only ever putting his phone down briefly while passing through security. They talk, and they talk, and it’s good. It’s not perfect because perfect would still be in each other’s arms, but it’s as close as they can get right now.

It’s Eddie’s entire world until a text comes through that isn’t from Richie. It’s Myra, telling him that she sees the flight is on schedule and does he know yet when he should be getting home.

Eddie feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally not one clue where abstract art appreciation richie came from but just roll with it


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here there be sex

Even in the first few weeks of wearing it, Eddie’s wedding ring had never felt as heavy and uncomfortable as it does now. It shouldn’t be. It’s just a small circle of gold, not even expensive as far as gold rings go, but Christ, it might as well weigh a literal, actual ton when he’s holding his phone to text Richie. It’s even worse when Myra does something, which is almost always. She’s never not been a degree shy of completely smothering, but since he got back from Chicago, it’s all Eddie can do to not lose his temper with her. And it isn’t like she’s doing anything different or even necessarily wrong. He’s just far too aware of her. Too aware of what he’s done.

It’s fucked up. What he’s doing is fucked up. He’s married. That came first. That’s what he’s supposed to focus on. But all he can think about is Richie. How Richie’s skin felt under his hands. Richie’s lips, the taste of the mocha on his tongue. Those tiny, little whimpers Richie had made. Richie saying he wanted Eddie.

He starts running again—hasn’t done it as strictly as he used to since meeting Myra—moving in circles around the neighborhood after work just trying to burn away all of this nervous energy. If he’s too tired to think, maybe all this shit won’t be so bad.

It might do just the opposite. Because he comes home hot and buzzing and needing a shower and—well. He’s thought about calling Richie in there, but wow, that’s such a bad idea. And what even would he say? How is he supposed to call Richie and tell him that he wants to get off to him but the fantasies would be a little better if he had some audio to go along with it? Fuck that.

Christ, he’s sick. Sick, and he doesn’t know what to do to be better. If he wants to be better.

``

Richie calls as Eddie gets into his car to head home. It’s become a bit of a habit. Happens more days than not. Myra’s become placated with just a text as he leaves so long as there are no poor weather conditions.

“So, someone gave me a couple of Yankees tickets,” Richie says. “You like baseball?”

“Only if it’s in New York,” Eddie says.

“I’ll call that a yes,” Richie says. “Game’s on the last Wednesday in March.”

“It’s the season opener,” Eddie asks.

“The fuck would I know,” Richie asks. “And since when did you become a jock?”

“You’re the one with the tickets, Einstein,” Eddie says. He pauses a moment. “I ran track in college.”

Richie makes an odd snorting sound. “Excuse me,” he asks, voice just a bit higher.

“Yep,” Eddie says. Richie makes another odd sound. “You ok?”

“Perfectly fine,” Richie nearly shouts. “So we doing this game?”

“I’ll be embarrassed to be seen near you, but yeah,” Eddie says. Already he has no idea how he’s going to keep his shit together seeing Richie for the first time in over two months at a stadium filled with thousands of people.

“Do you—um—you wanna do dinner after,” Richie asks, almost hesitant. “That might be late though. Or—or something earlier?”

Disappointment makes Eddie’s gut churn. “I’ve got a lot going on at work this month. We’ve taken on some new clients, and it’s fucking hectic. I can’t take a day unless I’m legitimately dying and even then only if it’s like a rare jungle disease.”

“That’s fine,” Richie says quickly. “That’s not a problem.”

“Rich,” Eddie says. “Hey, I would if I could, man. I can handle an evening game. I just can’t manage anything else right now. It sucks.”

“It’s ok,” Richie says. He still sounds almost defensive.

“I can’t wait to see you,” Eddie says, putting as much feeling into it as he can.

“Yeah,” Richie says with a sigh, not quite so tense as before. “Yeah, me too.”

It’s two weeks to wait. Two very long weeks. The day of the game, he throws a change of clothes into a duffle. He tells Myra that he’ll likely have to work late tonight and then swing by the gym, so she shouldn’t wait up. She should just have a nice Me Night. She fusses that working so hard is bad for his health, but miraculously, she doesn’t put up anymore fight than that.

The ease with which that works out makes the day seem to go by even slower. No matter how busy he is, every time Eddie looks at the clock, never more than fifteen minutes have gone by. He chews through one pen cap before he finishes his first cup of coffee and starts getting a little too aggressive with his typing after. Richie only texts him during lunch, leaving him time to actually get work done rather than waste all day on his phone. He offers to meet Eddie at work so they can take Eddie's car. Richie has a parking pass, so it’ll make getting to the stadium easier than dealing with the Godforsaken subway.

Eddie has to stay on his computer until the last possible minute, scrambling to complete a few more reports before he shuts down. He rushes to change in the bathroom and get into the parking garage where Richie is waiting. Eddie’s blood pounds in his veins, and he nearly runs to his car, ready to kiss Richie, but he stops short.

“What the fuck are you wearing,” he asks.

“The Cubs are baseball, right,” Richie asks, pointing at the logo on his shirt.

“In fucking Chicago,” Eddie hollers.

“I live in Chicago,” Richie says, as Eddie drops his face into his hands, making a noise somewhere between a scream and laughter. “What,” Richie asks. “I do!”

“You’re changing that shirt when we get to the stadium,” Eddie says. “I don’t care what the shirt ends up being—wait, no, yes, I do—“ Richie’s wide grin drops into a pout. “I’ll pick you out a shirt.”

“Spoilsport,” Richie teases, and Eddie reaches out and grabs his hand. Richie stares down at them for a moment, and then looks up, smile softer.

“Get in the car, asshole,” Eddie says.

At the stadium Eddie refuses to get out of the car until Richie gets rid of the Cubs jersey. “You’re ridiculous,” Richie cries.

“I’m right,” Eddie says.

Richie pulls off the jersey, sending his glasses askew. “And what would I do if I didn’t have on an undershirt?”

“I guess go topless,” Eddie says. Richie sputters, looking so scandalized that he wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian novel. “What, I’ve seen you without a shirt on.”

“When we were like fifteen,” Richie yells. “What if it was—“ He stops short.

“What,” Eddie asks, as Richie’s face screws up into something thoughtful.

He snaps his fingers a few times. “If it was—fuck—what’s her name,” he mutters.

“Her who,” Eddie asks, completely confused.

“The girl,” Richie says. “The girl we knew.”

“That is so unhelpful,” Eddie says, rubbing his thumb over his bare ring finger. He took it off while he was changing. It’s tucked away in his duffle.

“Fuck, what was her name,” Richie asks himself again.

“Does it matter,” Eddie asks. He really doesn’t want to hear Richie talking about any women, even some random girl they might have known as kids.

Richie blinks at him. “Um, I guess not,” he says. “My point was what if you made a woman go topless because you didn’t like her jersey?”

“First off,” Eddie says, jabbing a finger at Richie over the hood of his car. “It’s different when a man walks around without a shirt compared to a woman.”

“Too bad, am I right,” Richie asks, wagging his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Eddie says. “Second, you have a shirt, so who cares?”

“I just think that maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to treat me like a fine piece of meat,” Richie says, walking around the car towards him. It’s an absolute textbook Richie Tozier type comment in a textbook Richie Tozier voice, but Eddie notices a little bit of hesitance in his expression.

Eddie reaches out, gently wrapping his pointer finger around Richie’s pinky. He gives it a quick squeeze, and Richie squeezes back. Eddie really wants to kiss him right now, but there are so many people in this lot. “Come on, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, gentler than Richie’s old nickname should ever be uttered. “I’m not missing the opening pitch because you’re an idiot.”

Richie dips his head, trying to hide a blush. “Nerd,” he says.

“Jock,” Eddie corrects. “You’re the nerd.” He lets go of Richie and shoves him towards the stadium.

“Hell, these are good seats,” Eddie says after he buys Richie the most boring t-shirt in the gift shop and they finally make their way towards the field.

“I mean, I’d be kind of pissed if someone gave me shitty seats,” Richie says. He tries to sit down, and it’s a challenge with his long legs. “Spoke too soon,” he grumbles.

There are a few other people who end up sitting near them that Richie knows, all from some part of the entertainment industry. Eddie is introduced as one of Richie’s best friends from his hometown. Eddie waves back politely, but he really, really hopes these people don’t want to do a lot of talking with them.

Unfortunately they do, but it mellows as the game gets started. Eddie hasn’t been to a baseball game in years, and he’d forgotten how fun they can be, especially when your team is winning at home. He and Richie sit pressed elbow to shoulder, leaning against each other, and with the seats as small as they are, it’s not conspicuous looking at all. Neither are all the times they grab hold of each other at a good play, high five and let their hands linger together just a second or two longer than others around them. Richie’s knee is pressed against Eddie’s, and he’s so incredibly aware of it.

They sit and watch and watch, and finally it’s the seventh inning stretch. Eddie hops up. “Come on,” he says to Richie. “Let’s go grab a beer or something.”

There’s a stand right at the entrance to their section, but Eddie walks past it. “Um, Eduardo,” Richie says, pointing behind him. Eddie keeps walking until they come to a bathroom. He turns around to give Richie a look as he kicks the door open, and Richie’s eyes blow wide. “Oh,” he says.

They’re lucky. The bathroom is large, plenty of stalls, and there’s no one at the urinals to see Eddie grab Richie’s wrist and drag him into the furthest stall. He shoves Richie against the door and pulls him down for a long overdue kiss.

Richie’s mouth falls open as soon as Eddie licks at his lips. Their hands wander, Eddie’s pulling at Richie’s waist to get him closer, and Richie’s trailing from Eddie’s cheeks and into his hair. “Seriously,” Eddie says, grazing his teeth over Richie’s jaw. “Have you ever shaved? Like even once?”

“Doesn’t seem to—to bother you much,” Richie says. Eddie pulls Richie’s collar aside to get at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Richie gasps, his hands tightening around Eddie’s arms. “But I’m—definitely surprised that you—so like are bathroom make-outs like your fetish?”

“Beep fucking beep,” Eddie almost growls, grinding their hips together.

“Fuck,” Richie hisses, his head dropping to Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie keeps moving, slipping a leg between Richie’s. Both of them grind against each other, desperate like they were still teenagers. They kiss messily, hands roaming and pulling until Richie gasps. “Wait, wait.”

Eddie freezes, breathing hard into Richie’s hair. “Did you—“

“Shut up, no,” Richie says. “I just—I—fuck.”

Eddie rubs the back of Richie’s neck. “Take a minute,” he mutters. It’s agony to try to stay still. He’s hard and pressed up against Richie’s leg, and he just wants to—

Richie’s hand slips down, stopping at Eddie’s belt. “Do you want—can I—“

Eddie pulls in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Richie maneuvers them so that Eddie’s back is against the door. He works Eddie’s belt open slowly. His hands are shaking a bit. He unbuttons and unzips Eddie’s pants and drops to his knees, and Eddie’s eyes bug wide. That is not what he was expecting.

Richie looks up at him, eyes raging with nervousness and doubt. Eddie cups his hand to Richie’s cheek, dragging his thumb under Richie’s glasses. Richie’s brows furrow in a question, and Eddie nods.

Richie pulls Eddie’s pants down, just enough to take out his cock. Richie’s hand wraps around the base, stroking just a bit. Eddie clenches his jaw. It’s all that happens for a moment, just Richie gently stroking him, until Eddie lets out a light moan. Then Richie opens his mouth and closes his lips halfway down Eddie’s cock.

“ _Fuck_.”

Eddie grabs at Richie’s hair when he starts to bob his head, tongue swirling around the tip. He tugs, and Richie takes him in a little deeper. Good fucking Christ, the heat of Richie’s mouth is amazing. Eddie has to fight to keep his hips still and not thrust into that perfect, wet heat. He was not prepared for this, and there’s no way he’s going to last very long.

“God, Rich, fuck,” he moans, pulling too tight at Richie’s hair. It only makes him move faster. “Richie, Rich, I’m gonna—“ Richie starts stroking again along with the bobbing of his head. He clearly plans to stay there. “ _Shit_ ,” Eddie hisses, coming into Richie’s mouth. Richie keeps stroking, slowly, until Eddie is finished. He pulls off Eddie’s cock and swallows.

“Fuck,” Eddie says again.

Richie wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Was it—that all right,” he asks.

Eddie pulls Richie up by his shirt, slamming his lips to Richie’s, only belatedly realizing he would taste himself on Richie. He slides his tongue lazily through Richie’s mouth, breaking apart with a wet sound. “Real all right,” Eddie says. “Do you want me to—“

“No, I’m ok,” Richie says.

“Rich,” Eddie starts, but Richie’s shoulders hunch, and he’s clearly not comfortable anymore, so Eddie backs off, just brushing his fingers gently along Richie’s cheek. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, blinking fast. He offers up a shaky smile, and Eddie just has to accept it for now. He leans in and gently kisses the corner of Richie’s mouth. It helps. Richie’s expression eases a bit.

Richie leaves the stall first, giving Eddie a moment to fix himself back up. They wash their hands and leave, weaving through the crowd towards a beer stand. They stand closer than they need to, Eddie rocking to bump at Richie’s shoulder a few times. It makes Richie smile, and that makes the churning settling in Eddie’s gut a bit easier.

``

Eddie drops Richie off at his hotel. There’s one more quick round of frantic kissing before someone honks loudly behind them and they part. Eddie drives home a bit slower than he usually would, just thinking about what happened. Richie had blown him in a bathroom at Yankees Stadium.

He was blown by another man, and he _liked_ it.

Eddie’s hands tighten on the wheel. Square jaw, stubble, hands larger than his own, broad shoulders. Richie’s features are distinctly unfeminine, and Eddie likes that. He shouldn’t, but he does.

He frowns at himself. It’s not the fucking 50s or the 80s or whatever the hell. He doesn’t care if people are attracted to their same gender. They’re just people living their lives. It’s not his business, and even if it was, he doesn’t care.

But it feels different to admit to himself that he might be like that. Well, not might. He got his cock sucked by Richie, has kissed Richie, fantasizes about him. Those are all facts that can’t be denied.

But he’s married. To a woman. He shouldn’t be thinking any of this at all, but having Richie again, even in just these stolen moments, he feels right. Righter than he’s ever felt with someone. Being touched by Richie actually makes him feel good. It’s not like being touched by Myra, where he just has to grit his teeth and deal with it.

He doesn’t know where all of this is coming from. He’s never sat around daydreaming of other guys. He doesn’t daydream of women though either. He’s never really been into any of that, and it’s wild to him that doing something with Richie feels leaps and bounds over any girlfriends he had in the past or his wife.

Why the hell did he get married to her? Myra just—he told himself that he had to do it. It was what was right. His mother had liked her more than she’d liked anyone else. Still hated her to a degree but liked her somewhat. But his mother had been slowly dying and worrying herself sicker and sicker that Eddie wouldn’t be ok in the world by himself, and well, he hadn’t thought he would be either. And Myra was there.

That’s not the best reason. She was there. But that was what good, respectable young men did, right? They took care of their mothers, did things to make them happy, grow up, get a good job, get married.

Shit, Eddie doesn’t know what to think of everything. He has never had any sort of passion for Myra, but she’s familiar. She’s the safe choice. No risks. He can just keep on going as he has been, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything.

Richie is the opposite. Richie could uproot his entire life, send him hurtling into the unknown. Richie is risk personified. Just his existence forces Eddie to analyze things about himself that he never even considered before, and it’s fucking terrifying. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of something, the beginning of a journey that could entirely fuck him up and ruin his life if he makes one wrong move. But Richie is a siren song calling out to him from that darkness.

He has to put his wedding ring back on before he enters his house, and it’s heavier than ever before.

``

> [Richie]: netflix deal is official 🥳
> 
> [Eddie]: That’s great! Which city?
> 
> [Richie]: Cincinatti
> 
> [Richie]: at the madison
> 
> [Eddie]: Can’t say I know that one. But you’re going to do amazing. Which is a feat considering your jokes are shit.
> 
> [Richie]: laugh it up fuzzball.gif
> 
> [Richie]: any chance youd want to come?
> 
> [Richie]: you don’t have to
> 
> [Richie]: no pressure
> 
> [Richie]: i can pay for the plane tickets
> 
> [Richie]: its not a big deal
> 
> [Eddie]: Beep beep, idiot. Yes, I want to come. What are the dates?

Thankfully Richie’s show is on a Saturday night. Eddie can fly out Friday afternoon and come back Sunday easily enough if he just puts in extra hours earlier in the week.

“What’s in Cincinnati,” Myra asks when he tells her he’ll be going out of town.

“A client,” Eddie lies. “The firm wants them to have a personal touch, and they asked me to go.”

Myra frowns a bit as she arranges their pill boxes for the week. “I know you say it’s good that they send you out,” she starts, “but I just worry about you being on a plane so often. There’s so many germs, and—oh, I hate to even think it—but the more times you’re on a plane, the greater the chance of something—“

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Eddie says. “The odds of a plane crash are something like five million to one. I’m more likely to get struck by lightning. The flu is more dangerous.”

“What if you catch it,” Myra cries.

“I’ve had my flu shot,” Eddie says. “Really, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Myra wrings her hands. “If you’re really sure—“

“I am.”

“Well, I’ll go to the pharmacy tomorrow and get you some more disinfecting wipes just in case. And you should call your doctor about refilling your Xanax too. And what about your inhaler?”

Eddie lets her list off things—things he’s already made notes about checking on himself—happy that she isn’t trying to get him to pass the nonexistent buck to someone else. Things will be so much easier if he always has that fake excuse ready for moments he can get away to see Richie.

God, he misses him, but Eddie slams down on the thought. He shouldn’t think about Richie when he’s sitting across the table from Myra. She doesn’t know, of course, doesn’t suspect anything, but he’s got that paranoid and irrational fear that if he thinks about Richie around her, she’ll pick up on it.

There’s also the matter of the guilt. He’s cheating on her, in thought, word, and deed now. He gives to Richie things he doesn’t give to her, things that he should because she’s his wife. There was a short passage about never straying in his vows. He doesn’t remember exactly what it was, but he’s broken them. He’s going to continue to break them, and the wedding ring burns on his finger.

``

Eddie’s flight gets in before Richie’s. He takes his phone off airplane mode to see a couple of texts.

> [Richie]: meet me in the mens room??? 😘
> 
> [Richie]: ill be the one wearing lime green hot pants with bootylicious on the ass
> 
> [Eddie]: Gross. We’ve hit the quota on those. I’m sure there’s one of at least five Starbucks somewhere to meet at.

Richie responds about ten seconds after. He clearly doesn’t keep his phone in airplane mode.

> [Richie]: I don’t think they let u suck dick at the bucks
> 
> [Richie]: but if you have a smores frap ready for me we can find out
> 
> [Eddie]: Nothing is happening to anyone’s dick until we get to the hotel.

Eddie starts through the terminal, thankful that Richie isn’t here to see him actually laugh at the eggplant and pouting emojis and gifs he sends. He goes into the bathroom, takes care of things, and washes his hands first with the provided soap and then the disinfectant wipes from his bag.

Richie won’t land for another thirty minutes, so Eddie has plenty of time to leisurely walk through the airport, glancing into the various stores. He stops in one, just walking up and down the small aisles, making faces at some of the magazines and considering buying some mints despite how much they cost.

Then he comes upon a very small section of condoms and lube, and he stops short. Fuck. He’d forgotten about that. Jesus Christ, how did he manage that when he’s had this trip on his mind constantly for the past couple of weeks. Not that he’s absolutely expecting sex. The most they’ve done was at Yankee Stadium, but that had been in a public setting. They were only together for that evening. This time, it’s two nights, only Richie’s show getting in the way of spending all their time together however they want.

They haven’t talked about actual sex. They text about missing each other, wanting to hold onto each other, kiss, but sex? Eddie has no idea if that’s something Richie even wants, and he’s got less of a clue how Richie would want it, again, providing he does want it to begin with. Shit. They should have talked, but Eddie also has no idea how to bring that up casually on the phone.

He’s not expecting anything, but it would be stupid to not be prepared. He scans the boxes, grabbing his size, because he hasn’t seen Richie’s dick yet and doesn’t even know how to begin to guess condom sizes for dicks unknown, and then a few mini bottles of lube, which is hopefully enough. He grabs other things, one of the dumb magazines, a large bottle of water, a travel tissue package, and three packs of gum, as if somehow all these other things will hide that he’s buying lube and condoms. As if the checkout guy is going to guess exactly how Eddie might be using them and as if he even cares.

The transaction takes barely over a minute, the checkout guy not even looking up at him, and Eddie still has to clamp down on the urge to take another Xanax. He all but flees with the plastic bag and shoves everything except the water bottle into his already stuffed carryon. He chugs down half of the water in one go, and it does a little bit to help with how overheated he feels.

Christ, he needs to calm down. He is not a virgin. He has bought condoms before. This is not an entirely new experience, and he’s not sixteen.

He texts Richie asking for his gate number just to give his shaking hands something to do. Richie doesn’t know, so Eddie goes off in search of a board with the flights listed. He tracks down the Chicago flight and hurries off to the gate. He gets there just as people begin to exit the ramp.

All the nervous energy slips into something much more elated when he catches sight of Richie, who clearly doesn’t believe in flying as an occasion. He’s wearing sweatpants rolled up just enough to see bananas printed socks on feet stuffed into fleece house shoes. He’s got on a button up with little fish designs and a baggy hoodie. His hair is all flattened under an old Bulls cap.

He’s a fucking disaster, and Eddie wants to shove his tongue down his throat.

Richie grins at him, dropping his duffle to pull Eddie into a tight hug. Eddie slips a hand around the back of Richie’s neck, squeezing. He wishes he could better feel the warmth of Richie’s hands on his back. The hug is brief, so much briefer than either of them wants it to be. Eddie’s fingers graze across Richie’s jaw when he pulls back, and Richie looks very pointedly at Eddie’s mouth. “Hi,” Richie says, overwhelmingly soft. It makes Eddie’s heart flutter just a bit.

They make their way out from the terminal, Richie chattering on about what the woman in the seat next to him was watching on her iPad for the flight. Some absolutely buck wild old sci-fi flick. “Should have asked her what it was called,” Richie says.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Eddie says.

“I’m hurt, Eds,” Richie says, clapping a hand to his chest. “You don’t want to cuddle and watch trashy movies with me?”

“Not B-rated sci-fis from the fifties,” Eddie answers. Walking about ten paces in front of them are a couple. The man has his arm draped over the woman’s shoulders, and her arm is curled around his waist. It’s such a simple thing. Eddie wants to walk like that with Richie. They’re in a city where they don’t know anyone. Hell, they’re in an airport, a place of perpetual change. No one would look twice, but Eddie can’t muster up the courage to do it.

Instead Eddie just stays content—impatient but content for now—to walk close enough to Richie to feel his body heat, their hands brushing together every so often.

As they come up on the security point, Richie stops. “So, I don’t really think anything’s going to happen, because like, I’m not a fucking Kardashian or Robert Downey Jr. or anything, but it’s happened before so—“ He pulls off his hat, ruffling his hair and handing it to Eddie, who blinks at it as Richie pulls up the hoodie to replace the hat. “You have any sunglasses?”

“What are you talking about,” Eddie asks.

“Paps,” Richie says, tucking his glasses into his shirt pocket and pulling out a set of sunglasses that are hopefully a prescription pair, or else Eddie knows Richie’s going to bust his ass before they get out of this building.

“Do you really think they’re out there,” Eddie asks, sliding the cap over his head and briefly considering how dumb it must look with his suit.

“Not really,” Richie says. “I mean, this isn’t New York or LA, but I’m just saying. It’s happened before, and I don’t want you to get like—it sucks when you’re just trying to get off a flight, and someone pulls shit. I mean, it might even just be like a fan. I don’t want you to be, you know, exposed, I guess?”

“My hero,” Eddie says dryly.

“You can scoff all you want,” Richie says, leading the way out. “But the shit that can end up on the internet.”

“You’re trying to make me feel sorry for you that you’re an actual celebrity, and I just refuse,” Eddie says.

They make it out of the airport with no incident, and Eddie is about to make fun of Richie, but the driver picking them up shakes hands with Richie enthusiastically and says, “Mr. Tozier, I just have to say, I really loved your last special. The whole dating app bit was great. My friends quote it all the time.”

“Thanks,” Richie says with a tight sort of smile. It’s polite looking enough, but Eddie can tell. He’s waiting for this kid to make it awkward. Eddie shuffles just a step closer. It’s not much of anything, but he can do something if Richie gives him a signal.

Luckily the driver has a good sense of manners. “Sorry to hold you up. I just wanted to say. Let me get those bags for you,” he says, reaching out to take the duffle and Eddie’s carryon. He doesn’t bother them any further than asking if they’d like any bottled water, which they decline.

The drive to the hotel is spent mostly in silence. Richie slides his hand across the seat between them, brushing his fingers against Eddie’s. Eddie turns his hand over, smiling as they intertwine their fingers.

He’s buzzing by the time they get there, can barely keep still as Richie checks in. They keep looking at each other on the elevator, entirely too aware of the camera and the glass side. Richie fumbles with the key, taking three times to get it into the slot and push the door open. He drops his duffle as Eddie kicks his carryon out of the way, and they fall into each other.

Richie pulls his hat off Eddie’s head, flinging it somewhere behind them so he can get his hands into Eddie’s hair. Eddie pulls at Richie’s shirt, pressing their hips together and grinding. “God, I missed you,” Eddie says, pulling at Richie’s bottom lip with his teeth. Richie drops his head back, giving Eddie access to his neck.

“I missed you too, Spaghetti,” Richie breathes out, curling his fists into Eddie’s jacket. He squeals when Eddie pinches his side. “Asshole!”

“You started it,” Eddie says and drags his teeth over Richie’s pulse point.

They pull off Eddie’s jacket and Richie’s hoodie, losing their shoes somewhere on the way to the bed. Eddie pushes Richie back onto it and crawls over him. They spend a long time wrapped up in a tangled mess of limbs just kissing and lightly rocking against each other.

“Don’t suppose you want to go out for dinner,” Richie asks, trailing kisses along Eddie’s jaw.

“Not a chance,” Eddie says and rakes his fingers along Richie’s scalp, delighting as Richie shivers. “Room service exists for a reason.”

Richie flops an arm out to pick up the menu from the bedside table. They peruse through it and find a few things that sound all right. Richie makes the call, and Eddie goes to shower and get into something more comfortable than his now very rumpled work clothes.

The food comes up, and they lie in bed, picking at each other’s plates. Eddie whines as Richie steals a handful of fries. “If you wanted them, you should have ordered them,” he says.

“What, and miss that cute little pouty face,” Richie asks, shoving the fries into his mouth in one go. His stuffed cheeks are in equal parts gross and adorable.

When the food is done, Richie grabs his duffle to put up on the table by Eddie’s bag. Eddie rolls his eyes when Richie pulls out a ziplock bag of toiletries. “What about me makes you think for even a second I’ve got a more complicated setup than this,” Richie asks with a grin.

Eddie pulls out his pill case and dumps the evening doses into his palm. “Clearly I am a fool to give you any more credit than I would a sixth grader,” he says, going back to the side table to grab his glass of water.

“Very much sounds like a you problem,” Richie says. “You should have known tha—“

He stops short, and Eddie looks back to see Richie reaching into the plastic bag from the airport. Eddie’s eyes blow wide, and he can’t make himself move to stop Richie before he pulls out one of the bottles of lube. He stares down at it for a long, long moment before he looks back up at Eddie, his eyes wide and mind clearly racing.

“We don’t have to,” Eddie blurts. “I mean, if you don’t want to. I know we haven’t talked about it, I just—always be prepared?”

“Do you want to,” Richie asks, his voice so soft.

God, he does. He wants to touch every part of Richie. He wants skin on skin, sweat and spit and all the parts of sex that are so gross when you think about it, but he wants it all.

But they haven’t actually talked about it, and Richie hadn’t wanted Eddie to touch him at the baseball game.

“Only if you do,” Eddie says. Richie bites at his bottom lip, staring hard at the bottle in his hand. Eddie walks up, taking it away gently and cupping Richie’s face in his hands. “Hey,” he says softly. “No pressure, ok. We don’t have to do anything. This right here, this is enough.” He presses a kiss, feather light, against Richie’s lips.

Richie lets out a long, slow breath. He drops his forehead to Eddie’s. “I think,” he starts, his voice croaking a bit. He clears his throat. “I think I want to.”

“We can wait,” Eddie says. “Think isn’t really total confidence.”

Richie lets out a shaky laugh, curling his hands around Eddie’s wrists. “No, I want to. I’m just—I’m just nervous. Which is stupid. Like how old am I?”

Eddie kisses him again. “It’s ok. I am too,” he says, trailing his thumbs soothingly over Richie’s cheeks. He moves his hands just enough to take hold of Richie’s and says, “Come on, let’s talk it out.”

Richie hiccups a bit. “Romantic.”

Eddie squeezes hard, and Richie mutters a small complaint. “Dude, a dick is going into someone’s ass here. There’s a conversation that needs to happen before.”

“Seriously, I’m swooning,” Richie says, but his face is a little pale.

“You done this before,” Eddie asks. It takes a moment, but then Richie nods. “Which part?”

“Um, both,” he says, eyes trailing on the floor.

Eddie squeezes his hands again, this time as a comforting gesture. “I haven’t,” Eddie says, and Richie’s eyes widen and dart up to him. “So, since you’re the one with the expertise—“ Richie’s face does a weird spasm at that. “—do you have a preference?”

Richie thinks about it for a long moment. “I should, um, I should probably—“ He swallows thickly. “—I should bottom. I mean, you’ve never done it, and it’s different, and—Jesus—I’m so nervous right now. I don’t know why I’m this nervous, but if I was, you know, on top, I’d—it probably wouldn’t be good. For you, and I—“

“Hey,” Eddie says. “Remember, we don’t have to do this at all. It’s ok.”

Richie has been avoiding his gaze for pretty much this entire conversation, but he lifts his eyes and looks at Eddie, really looks at him. Richie’s eyes are wild and blazing, so much happening behind them. Eddie knows Richie’s brain is racing a mile a minute. Then Richie leans in, kissing Eddie with a slow but burning type of passion. Eddie opens his mouth to Richie’s tongue, sliding his own against it. When they break apart, foreheads still together and breath intermingling, Richie says lowly but firmly, “I want you.”

Eddie slips his hands up to cradle the back of Richie’s head. He walks them backwards to the bed, falling back and pulling Richie on top of him. Richie stays propped up on his forearms, trying to avoid putting his full weight on Eddie. Which is unacceptable. Eddie slides his hands under Richie’s shirt, pulling him down to press hips flush against each other. He drags his nails lightly over Richie’s back, and Richie moans into the kiss.

The shirt needs to go, Eddie decides. It needs to go right the fuck now. He tugs for a moment before remembering it’s a button up, and then he fumbles around with the buttons. He finally gets it open and gives the same treatment to Richie’s chest as he did his back, grazing his nails through chest hair and making Richie suck hard on his tongue when he brushes up against a nipple.

Eddie wraps his legs around Richie’s waist, rubbing against him, feeling Richie getting hard through his sweatpants. He drags kisses down Richie’s throat and pulls at his hair. “Christ,” Richie mutters, his breath hot and heavy.

Eddie flips them, teeth nibbling along Richie’s jaw, hips grinding against each other. Eventually he has to pull back because he’s so hard, and he could come just from this, but he’s not sixteen anymore. The refractory period is not the same. “Clothes off,” Eddie breathes into Richie’s ear, pushing back off the bed to go grab the condoms and lube. He drops them to the bed beside Richie and pulls off his shirt.

“Oh my God,” Richie cries, half way through shimmying out of his pants.

“What,” Eddie asks, hands hovering over his own waistband.

Richie’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Why do you have abs,” Richie asks incredulously. “Oh my fucking Christ, we’re almost forty.”

Eddie blinks. “Um, yeah. I run and go to the gym. Exercise is healthy and—“

Richie squeals, pushing his hands under his glasses to hide his face. “Oh my God, oh my God. This isn’t allowed. You can’t just do this to me. Where is my shirt? I cannot even—“

Eddie lunges for him, grabbing his wrists and wrestling him still. “Don’t you dare,” he says, eyes dragging up and down Richie’s torso. Ok, Richie clearly doesn’t see much of the inside of a gym, but Eddie thinks he looks very good. His chest and shoulders are broad, not particularly defined but nice, and he’s got a cute little bit of dough around his stomach. He doesn’t have any hint of the v-lines that Eddie does, but the trail of hair leading down to the tent in his boxers is just as enticing. Eddie runs his hands down Richie’s chest and stomach, stopping just briefly to rub his thumbs in circles at Richie’s hip bones, and then back up.

“If you try to put your shirt back on, I will strangle you with it,” Eddie says lowly. He drops down to kiss Richie again, hands roaming. Richie’s hands shake a bit as he brings them up to touch Eddie, but once he gets going, he matches Eddie's enthusiasm.

Eddie wiggles out of his shorts and helps Richie get his sweatpants fully off. He throws both articles of clothing over his shoulder. They hit a table, knocking a glass over. It doesn’t break, so Eddie gives it no more consideration even though Richie starts giggling. Eddie pinches his side, and Richie’s giggle turns into a screech. “Stop, asshole,” Richie cries as Eddie laughs.

He drags his fingers down, stopping at the band of Richie’s boxers. He dips his fingers just under and asks, “Is this ok?”

Richie pulls in a long, slow breath, letting it out shakily. “Yeah,” he says.

“Tell me if I need to stop, ok,” Eddie says, and Richie just nods. Eddie curls his fingers fully under the band and pulls the fabric away. Richie’s cock jumps out, and cocks are weird; objectively, Eddie can’t see why any of it is appealing, but he so badly wants hands on Richie’s cock right the fuck now.

He wraps his hand lightly around it, and Richie shudders. Eddie moves slowly, pumping his hand up and down the shaft. Again, this is weird, but the little gasps and moans Richie makes are music to his ears. Richie’s fists pull tightly at the bedding, and Eddie slides his free hand up to clasp at Richie’s hand and intertwine their fingers. He squeezes tight.

“Do you want me to do more,” Eddie asks, his mouth hovering close to Richie’s cock.

Richie cranes his head up to look at him, his jaw slack. “Um,” he says, licking at his lips, “not that that doesn’t sound like—like really fucking amazing, but it’s kind of, you know, kind of been a fucking while, and if you start, I don’t know that I’ll be able to really last, so, if you want to—um—you know, which I do! I do, but—“

“Beep beep,” Eddie says, rubbing his thumb over the slit of Richie’s cock. Richie drops his head back to the bed, hissing in a curse. Eddie lets go of him, pulling off both their boxers and pushing Richie up the bed. He grabs a bottle of the lube. “Ok, I have a pretty decent general idea of how this goes,” he says. “But keep talking to me, ok? Let me know if I need to do more or if it’s too much or anything.”

Richie nods, pulling a deep, calming breath. He blinks at the ceiling a few times and then pulls off his glasses, tossing them to the bedside table. “Ok,” he says. “Ok, I’m ready.”

Opening Richie up is a slow affair. Eddie’s so worried about doing anything wrong, not being thorough enough and hurting him. But it’s still hard to take his time with the noises Richie makes. Eddie remembers months ago wondering if Richie would be loud in bed or quiet. Loud seemed more like him, but everything so far has been breathy gasps, low moans deep from his throat, like he’s trying so hard to not let them escape.

At Richie’s nod, Eddie begins to scissor his fingers, and Richie, through his teeth, hisses, “Fuck, Eds.”

Eddie hates that dumb nickname, but he thinks he’d really like to push Richie—not today, but sometime soon—and see if he can’t make him completely unravel, give him so much that Richie can’t keep anything in and has no choice but to scream out that name and only that name.

Eddie never stops moving his fingers, curling, scissoring, and pumping, and Richie shakes and clenches around him. He uses more lube than is probably necessary, but better safe than sorry.

Some eternity later, Richie reaches down and grasps at Eddie’s wrist. Eddie stops short. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, his chest heaving. “Yeah, I—I’m ready, Eds.”

Eddie nods, pushing up on the bed to kiss Richie long and slow. Their lips part with a wet sound, and Richie turns onto his stomach while Eddie rolls a condom over his own achingly hard cock. He slathers more lube both on his cock and Richie’s hole and lines up. He rubs his clean hand up Richie’s spine, squeezing once at the back of his neck. “Ok?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, arching his back a bit. “Yeah, just—go slow at first.”

Eddie braces his hand on Richie’s hip and slowly pushes the tip of his cock inside. He spent a lot of time getting Richie ready, but he’s still so tight around Eddie. “Fuck,” Eddie hisses, moving almost torturously slow, bit by bit, guided by Richie’s shaking voice.

Eddie drops his head, breathing hard when he finally, finally bottoms out. God, this is—Richie is tight and hot, and Eddie hasn’t felt anything this good in—shit, he can’t even think of when. “Jesus, Rich,” he says, arm shaking as he holds his weight off of Richie’s back. “You feel amazing. Are you ok? Can I move?”

Richie nods, his fists clenched into the sheets. Eddie dips down to kiss the back of Richie’s neck, and then he pulls out slowly. Richie shakes under him, and Eddie pushes back in just as slow. Fuck, he wants more. He wants so much more, but he doesn’t change his pace until Richie gasps, “Faster. You can go faster.”

So Eddie does. He makes his thrusts shallower, but he picks up the pace. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie groans. “Oh my God, Eddie.” Eddie pushes in deeper when Richie starts bucking back to meet his thrusts.

They fall into a pace, faster and harder, and Eddie reaches around to take Richie’s cock in his hand. Richie makes a noise like a sob, and Eddie tries to match his hand to his thrusts. “Fuck, Richie, Christ. You feel so good. Shit. I never want this to end.”

Richie drops from his hands to his forearms, and the change of position must be really good, because he buries his face in a pillow and cries out. He pushes his hips back harder until Eddie bottoms out on every thrust. Richie turns his face from the pillow, gasping for air. “Eddie, Eddie, fuck, harder, please, please,” he begs.

Eddie clings at Richie’s hips, fingers buried so deep in his skin it might bruise. The thought, that he might mark Richie, spurs Eddie on faster. He pushes forward, slamming Richie’s hips back at the same time, and Richie sobs something nonsensical. Richie’s hand slides under him, grabbing at his own cock. He pumps fast, other hand scrambling for purchase against the bedding.

Richie comes first, suddenly. He tightens around Eddie, crying out wordlessly, noises fading into little desperate moans. Eddie moves faster, slamming through the way Richie clenches around him. He doesn’t last much longer, just five more thrusts before it hits and his vision nearly whites out. “Rich, Richie, God,” he moans, slowly pumping his way through the orgasm. He falls over Richie’s back, barely balanced on his hand to hold his full weight off him. He kisses at the back of Richie’s shaking shoulders. “God, that was so good. You’re so good. Are you ok?”

Richie is breathing even harder than Eddie. “Yeah,” he gasps, muffled by the pillow. “Yeah, I—Jesus.”

After catching his breath somewhat, Eddie pushes off Richie and slowly pulls out. Richie makes another of those beautiful, desperate whimpers. He squeezes at Richie’s hips and says, “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie goes into the bathroom. He disposes of the condom and runs a washcloth under the water to clean himself up. He takes another and brings it out to do the same to Richie. Richie is still lying flat on the bed, face buried in the pillow. He’s also still shaking when Eddie slides onto the bed next to him. “Hey,” he says softly, pulling lightly at Richie’s shoulder to turn him onto his back. “Hey, you sure you’re ok? I didn’t hurt you?”

Richie’s hair curls with sweat, and his face is red. His eyes are closed tight. Eddie rubs a gentle hand over his brow. “Richie, look at me, man.”

Richie drags his own hand hard over his eyes before he does. His eyes seem wet, like he’s on the verge of crying or already has been. Eddie gears up to panic—shit, he did hurt Richie, oh fuck. But Richie smiles shakily, wrapping his fingers loosely around Eddie’s wrist. “I’m ok,” he says, voice raspy. “I mean, my ass is definitely going to feel that tomorrow—on stage, by the way—but yeah, yeah, I’m ok.”

“You dipshit,” Eddie says all too fondly. He wipes the washcloth gently over Richie’s face first, trailing down to clean the mess on his stomach and then very carefully between his legs, mindful of how sensitive he is right now but still getting all the lube and cum. “You probably should take a real shower to make sure it’s all clean.”

“I literally cannot move my legs,” Richie says. “My bones have melted.”

“Too bad your voice box still works,” Eddie says, flicking Richie’s nose.

“Rude,” Richie says. “Awfully rude thing to say to a man who let you put your dick in his ass and plans to let you continue to do so in the future. Because shit, Eds, shit, that was amazing.”

“I’ve never been one to half-ass shenanigans,” Eddie says, grinning wide when Richie starts laughing. There had still been some tension there, something shaky that Eddie really hopes isn’t the beginnings of reluctance or regret, because now that he’s had this, Eddie has no idea how he could ever let it go.

Richie kicks the soiled comforter down, and they worm their way under the sheets. Richie curls around Eddie, burying his face in Eddie’s chest and still laughing. Eddie laughs too as he slides his hand through Richie’s impossibly tousled hair. “You’re such a fucking dork,” Richie giggles.

“Your fault,” Eddie says. “You’ve always been a bad influence.”

They don’t move around much after. They each take a shower, just something really quick. Richie pulls his sweatpants back on, and Eddie gets his own pair of pajama pants from his bag. He stops Richie when Richie starts to pull a shirt on. “Didn’t I tell you I’d strangle you if you tried,” he says, sliding his hands over Richie’s soft belly to wrap around his back.

“It’s absolutely unfair,” Richie says. “Like criminally unfair. This goes against my fundamental human rights somehow.” Eddie pushes up to kiss him, distracting him long enough to get in a pinch at Richie’s muffin top. Richie yelps, “Violation! Violation of the Geneva Convention! I’m taking this to the UN!”

Eddie laughs and pulls Richie back to the bed. They slip under the sheets, and Eddie maneuvers them to how they were lying earlier, Richie tucked up under his chin and their legs tangled together. “At least I’m still taller,” Richie grumbles, burying face into Eddie’s neck when Eddie tugs sharply at Richie’s hair.


	4. Chapter 4

In the dressing room before the show, Richie is a mess. He gulps down a glass of bourbonand fidgets with everything he can get his hands on. Eddie reaches out to try to calm him down, but Richie blurts, “Can I blow you?”

“And they say romance is dead,” Eddie says, taken completely off guard. “What are you talking about right now? You’re on stage in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Richie says. “I am highly aware. I just—I’m fucking nervous, ok? I need to get rid of all this jittery energy. So. Can I blow you?”

Eddie goes over to the door and locks it. Richie follows after him, ready to push him against the door. Eddie turns around and stops Richie with a hand to his chest. “Are you usually like this before a show?”

Richie chews on his bottom lip. “Um, not really, no. I mean, sometimes, but like maybe more eighty-twenty?”

“Ok,” Eddie says, pulling Richie’s lip down with his thumb to keep him from biting at it again. “Is it because this one is being filmed?”

“I’ve had filmed shows before,” Richie says.

Eddie just stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Be a big boy and just tell me why this one has you worked up,” he says.

“Asshole,” Richie snaps. Then his eyes trail down to the floor. “You’re here,” he mutters.

“Me,” Eddie asks, and Richie’s shoulders start to hunch up. Eddie drops his hands over them, squeezing gently. “Hey, I’ve been to one of your shows, remember? It’s how we met again.”

“I didn’t know you were there,” Richie cries. “And, you know, this—“ He waves a hand between them. “This wasn’t—“

Eddie grins. “Aw, Trashmouth, are you worried I won’t think your big comedy show is funny?”

“Fuck off,” Richie snaps, starting to push away, but Eddie grabs him and drags him in for a searing kiss. Richie melts under Eddie’s hands.

Eddie slides one hand around the back of Richie’s neck. With his other hand, he takes Richie’s, trailing it down his chest and stomach and landing at his groin. “Take what you need, sweetheart,” Eddie says into Richie’s mouth, and Richie’s entire body shudders against him. Eddie files that away for later.

They make out against the door, Richie palming at Eddie through his pants until he gets hard. Then Richie drops to his knees. He doesn’t waste any time. He takes Eddie’s cock into his mouth as far as he can without triggering his gag reflex. Eddie drops his head back to the door with a loud thunk. He tries to keep his hands pressed against the door. Richie’s hair is sort of tamed right now. He can’t go out there looking like he’s just had sex.

But Eddie is weak, and the temptation is too strong. Eddie loves the noises Richie makes when he gets his fingers in Richie’s hair. He loves how much Richie loves it. So Eddie gives in, sliding his nails over Richie’s scalp. Richie responds by moaning and taking Eddie deeper into his mouth, and fuck yes.

“Christ, Rich,” Eddie groans. “You’re so fucking good at this.” Richie’s tongue swirls around him. He hollows his cheeks, taking Eddie in greedily. Eddie pulls tight at Richie’s hair.

A knock on the door makes them freeze. “Ten minutes, Mr. Tozier,” a voice calls.

Richie pulls himself off Eddie’s cock and calls back, “Got it.” He looks up at Eddie, lips swollen and wet. “How you doing,” Richie asks, his hand stroking Eddie slowly.

“I’ll be a lot better when you get back to it,” Eddie says, rubbing soothing circles across Richie’s scalp.

“I’ll bet,” Richie says. He keeps stroking for a moment but doesn’t start up again. He looks thoughtful and then says, “You should fuck my mouth.”

Considering how his cock twitches in Richie’s hand and the immediate moan that escapes his throat, Eddie has no way of denying how extraordinarily much he’d like to do that. “Rich, your show,” he tries.

Richie rubs his thumb over the slit of Eddie’s cock. His mouth is right there, right fucking there, but he doesn’t take Eddie in. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Exactly. Going out on stage looking wrecked. And they’re filming it. Fuck, that’s hot.”

Christ, it is. Knowing what Richie will look like, even after they try to fix his hair and make him look presentable again, knowing that Eddie can go back at any time and watch this special on Netflix and know that he’s the one who made Richie look like that. Sound like that. He’ll never be able to watch it around other people.

“Ok,” Eddie says, and that’s all the prompting Richie needs. He opens his mouth, and Eddie thrusts into him. Not that they’ve had much time for Richie to blow him that often, but Richie’s methods are usually slower, gentler. He drags it out, and it feels fucking phenomenal. But Eddie has the reigns on this one, and even if they weren’t on a time crunch, Eddie can’t help but want Richie hard and fast and deep. As much of him as he can get as quickly as possible.

So Eddie holds tight to Richie’s hair, keeping him in place as he pumps his cock in and out of Richie’s wet mouth. He goes as deep as he thinks Richie can handle. Maybe back at the hotel he’ll test Richie’s actual limits, see just how far Richie can take him.

He feels the heat burning low in his belly. Richie clings to Eddie’s thighs, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s, and fuck if he isn’t the most beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen. He doesn’t last long with Richie looking at him like that. Eddie gives him a warning, but just like before, Richie stays put and swallows down every last bit.

It should be disgusting, but Eddie pulls Richie up to kiss him, to taste himself on Richie’s tongue. He really should be grossed out, but fuck, he likes it. They kiss, too lazily, too soft, until Richie’s manager pounds on the door. “What are you doing in there, Rich? Three fucking minutes!”

“Shit,” Richie mutters, and Eddie pulls him in for one last deep kiss. Richie smiles at him when they part, dopey and adorable.

Eddie hates to break the moment. He’d rather keep Richie in his arms forever, but there’s shit to do. “We’ve got to do something about your hair,” Eddie says.

Richie steps back, heading towards the mirror while Eddie tucks himself back into his pants. “Whose fault is that,” Richie asks.

“One hundred percent yours,” Eddie answers. He dumps some water from a bottle into his hand and sets about trying to smooth Richie’s hair. It sort of works. It’ll start curling up in a few minutes. There’s nothing at all to be done about his red, swollen lips. Eddie rubs his thumb over them, and Richie opens his mouth just enough to catch Eddie’s thumb between his teeth. “See,” Eddie says lowly. “You’re completely incorrigible.”

Richie slides his tongue against Eddie’s thumb before dropping it. “Breaking out those SAT words?”

“Get out there, you idiot,” Eddie says, pushing Richie towards the door.

Richie grins and flings open the door, grabbing immediately for the glass of bourbon his manager is holding. The poor guy looks frazzled, and Eddie thinks, yeah, they cut that really close. But as he walks behind them, he figures it’s worth it. Richie is loose again, the bit of swagger back in his step, excess nervous energy faded into mild pre-show jitters.

“Thirty seconds,” a woman with big headphones and a clipboard says. Richie takes a last swig of the drink, handing the glass to his manager. Eddie keeps going. He’s got a seat out in the crowd, directly front and center.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he calls over his shoulder, and Richie winks at him.

``

The show goes amazing, and on the ride back to the hotel, they can barely keep themselves still. If there was a partition in this thing, Eddie would have been in Richie’s lap the second the door closed behind them.

In their room, Eddie pulls frantically to get their clothes off. Richie laughs and makes some sex addict joke, and, well, that isn’t too far from the truth. Because Eddie’s had Richie now, and even as brief as this all has actually been, he doesn’t envision a world where he goes back to not having Richie. It’s all he wants, skin on skin, sweat and spit and cum, and feeling his breath, hearing his heartbeat, just having him right beside him.

This is all shaping up to be big trouble, but for once in his life, Eddie doesn’t care.

He pushes Richie down on the bed. Eddie doesn’t care about the pre-game this time. He grabs the lube, sinks to his knees between Richie’s legs, and finally, finally gets his mouth on Richie’s cock. The noises he pulls from Richie are absolute music, perfect and beautiful when Eddie slips a lubed finger into Richie.

Richie’s back arches off the bed, sputtering curses. Eddie doesn’t let up. He devours Richie’s cock, working him open at the same time. Two fingers stretching, then three, and every noise Richie makes goes right to Eddie’s cock. He’s so fucking hard just from listening to Richie. If he drew this out, he thinks he could come from this alone, but drawing it out is not an option tonight. He wants to be inside Richie again.

Eddie curls his fingers, and Richie jolts like a live-wire. He does it again, relentlessly, still bobbing his head up and down Richie’s cock. Richie becomes a trembling mess, but still manages to give Eddie a warning. Eddie pulls off his cock, wrapping his hand around it, pumping fast, the fingers of his other hand working harder inside Richie, hitting that sweet spot unwaveringly. Richie comes hard, calling Eddie’s name in a symphony of whimpers.

Eddie pulls his fingers out gently. He trails light kisses up from the junction of Richie’s thighs and hips, up his soft stomach, up his chest, across his collar bone, up his neck and at his jaw before finally landing on his gasping mouth. “You ok,” he asks softly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Richie answers.

Eddie laughs a bit, dropping his forehead to Richie’s. “Take a minute,” Eddie says, “because we’re not done yet.”

“A minute,” Richie sputters. “Fuck. What’s your deal? The abs of a twenty year old and the stamina of a teenager?”

Eddie nips at Richie’s lips. “Been a couple of hours since I last came,” he says, rubbing his aching cock against Richie’s. The sound he makes is going to be instilled into Eddie’s brain forever. Eddie nuzzles into Richie’s sweat damp hair and whispers in his ear, “Spent the whole show waiting to get my cock back in you.” Richie clings to Eddie’s shoulders. “It’ll be all I think about when it comes out. How it started with my cock in your mouth and ends with me fucking you as hard as I can into this mattress.”

“Fuck, Eds, fuck,” Richie gasps. “That. Do that, please.”

After one last wet kiss, Eddie maneuvers Richie so that he’s folded over the bed, long legs hanging down to the floor, but he won’t have to rely on them for support. Eddie puts on the condom, pours more lube, and slowly slips into Richie. Hot, tight, perfect.

He’s barely bottomed out when Richie gasps, “Move, please, God, Eds, don’t—don’t wait. Fuck me, like you said. Hard, please.”

Eddie pauses for a moment. “You sure,” he asks, because he did just put Richie through a lot. And he was right, they aren’t teenagers anymore.

“Please,” Richie cries, desperate, and Eddie can’t say no. He pulls out and slams back in, setting an immediate rough pace that has Richie tugging wildly at the sheets. Eddie holds onto him as tight as he can, adding fresh bruises on Richie’s hips over the ones from last night. He yanks Richie back as he thrusts forward, completely unyielding.

He can hear Richie sobbing. Eddie calls out to him, but Richie just begs, “More, fuck, more please, Eds.” Eddie’s close, so close. He reaches under Richie, wrapping his hand around his cock. It steals Richie’s breath away completely. It’s been too soon since he last came, but a dry orgasm rocks through him, leaving Richie trembling violently. Eddie follows, Richie’s tight body milking everything from him.

Eddie collapses over Richie’s back, and it takes a long time to catch his breath and regain some feeling in his legs. He pushes up to his elbows, kissing the back of Richie’s neck. He pulls out slowly, and Richie sounds completely wrecked. “Are you ok,” Eddie asks, slowly helping Richie over onto his back. God, forget sounding wrecked, Richie is straight out of a wet dream.

“I don’t think I have real insides anymore,” Richie says, his chest heaving. “I think it’s all just jelly now. Fuck, Eds.”

“You said you wanted it hard,” Eddie says.

“And boy howdy, did you deliver,” Richie sighs.

“Never say boy howdy in front of me again,” Eddie warns.

“I’ll say whatever I want after letting you do what you just did,” Richie says. “Come up here and kiss me so I can at least pretend you aren’t just using me as a sex doll.”

“Beep, beep, fucker,” Eddie says and does what he’s told. The kiss is pretty much the opposite of what they just did, not chaste, but still soft and so gentle. Eddie holds Richie’s face in his hands, moving in gentle caresses to wipe the sweat from his brow.

It takes some heavy bitching, but he gets Richie up from the bed and into the overly large bathtub. Eddie grabs one of the little bottles of shower gel and squeezes it all out into the water to make bubbles. They won’t last long at all, but fuck it, it’s the thought that counts. “Sap,” Richie accuses, all the while looking at Eddie with the dopiest grin.

“Get in the fucking tub so you don’t wake up in the morning with cum crusted all over you. I’m not sleeping in the same bed as that,” Eddie says.

``

That’s the whole of their weekend. They stay in the hotel room, order room service, and have as much sex as they can. Eddie doesn’t know if he was even this horny as a teenager, but their time together is limited. He wants as much as he can get to keep him satisfied—who is he kidding; Eddie’s never going to have enough of Richie now that they’re here—until the next time they can be together.

Going back home is torture. Standing together in the airport at Eddie’s terminal, Eddie gets all those cheesy fucking airport scenes in romcoms now. It’s made all the worse that they can’t touch each other out here like they want to. Eddie’s lips still burn from that last kiss in the hotel room, how desperate they had been, trying to fuse into one, in denial about their phones chirping with alarms until it just couldn’t be ignored any longer.

New York City, population over eight million, feels empty and lifeless. His house, expensive and a very good size, has always been dark and constricting, but fuck, now he can barely breathe coming into the entry hall. And Myra.

The guilt hits when she greets him with a smile. Eddie immediately thumbs at his wedding ring, checking for probably the fifteenth time that he put it back on. She goes on about how she’s glad he’s home and that his trip was safe. It grates agains all of his senses. Not her fault, not at all. He’s the one having an affair. With a man. _Christ_.

He says he’s tired because he can’t look at her right now without going down a complete spiral. He hates that she’s understanding, that she tells him to take a shower and that she’ll have soup finished up soon. She’ll bring it up to him.

“I love you, Eddie,” she says as he trudges up the stairs. He hits his bag loudly against the wall so he can pretend to have not heard her.

``

Sexting is awkward. Thank God Richie is as bad at it as Eddie is.

> [Richie]: dude i’m sorry i can’t take this seriously
> 
> [Richie]: this sounds like a wang joke i would have made at 13
> 
> [Eddie]: It sounds like a wang joke you would make today.
> 
> [Richie]: Look.
> 
> [Richie]: That’s fair.
> 
> [Eddie]: I’d almost think videos would be better, but…
> 
> [Richie]: i’m not watching a ten minute video of you dry pumping your dick
> 
> [Richie]: don’t get me wrong, i like your dick. your dick has been good to me but i’m not having that take up storage on my phone
> 
> [Eddie]: Agreed. It does suck though. I want to see you.
> 
> [Richie]: is that a veiled way of saying send nudes?? i’ll have to fish my selfie stick out of the closet if you want a good shot
> 
> [Eddie]: Actually that wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Taking pictures of you in the hotel. You looked fucking amazing. Or while you were blowing me before your show. You have no idea how good you look with your mouth stretched over my cock.

Eddie grins at his phone, watching the incoming bubbles start and stop six times before Richie finally manages a response. Just a gif of a confused cat with a piece of bread stuck over its face. Eddie takes that to mean he’s won this round.

He’s in no way kidding, of course, now that he’s thought about it. Risky as it would be having pictures like that of Richie on his phone, well, Eddie would never say no. Not that he needs the reminder of what Richie had looked like. He’s pretty sure that’s seared into his brain forever. But still, he wouldn’t complain about having that moment captured on film instead of just in his memory.

But memories are all he gets to have until their next time together, which ends up coming quicker than Eddie would have guessed. He’s sent to D.C. for a conference. There’s work to do immediately, so he has to just deal with his phone buzzing in his pocket. Richie is already at the hotel. He sends pictures of the room, as if Eddie cares outside of the bed. Pictures of the minibar. Again, not necessary. The bathtub. Ok, he’ll give Richie that one.

Any texts that aren’t just pictures are purely whining that Eddie’s taking too long.

> [Eddie]: Some of us have real jobs, asshole.
> 
> [Richie]: my job is real. it’s just not boring
> 
> [Eddie]: We’re wrapping up. I’ll be at the hotel in probably forty minutes.
> 
> [Richie]: huuuuuurrrrrryyyyyyy
> 
> [Eddie]: I expect you to be naked when I walk in that door.
> 
> [Richie]: i’ll do you one better
> 
> [Eddie]: What the fuck does that mean?
> 
> [Richie]: 🤫

Richie stops texting him at that point, even when Eddie tells him that he’s in the cab and on the way over. A silent Richie is always a worrisome thing. Lord only knows what he’s up to now.

Eddie gets his keycard from the front desk and makes his way up to their room. It’s quiet when he opens the door. Eddie frowns, kicking his carryon out of the way and shrugging out of his suit jacket. “Rich,” he calls. Richie hums loudly from further in the room. Eddie’s frown deepens. “For how mouthy you were being earlier, I expected a better welcome party. Gotta tell you, dude, this one suc—“

Eddie stops short as he comes around the partition, fingers frozen in the middle of loosening his tie. Richie is lying on the bed. Naked, as Eddie had requested. Naked and hard and legs spread enough for Eddie to see that Richie already prepped himself. It takes an extraordinary effort to tear his eyes away from Richie’s body to look at his face. He’s red from his neck up, but he’s got a smug sort of grin.

“Hi, puddin’ pop,” he says.

“Did you finger yourself,” Eddie asks, fire burning up immediate and deep inside him.

“Ready and rearing,” Richie says, wagging his brows.

Eddie’s eyes narrow, and Richie’s grin falters. “Don’t,” Eddie says, “ever do that again.”

“Oh,” Richie says. He starts to sit up. “Oh, I just thought—“

Eddie cuts him off, tearing off his tie and throwing it to the ground. “Don’t ever do that again when I can’t see it,” Eddie says. He pushes Richie roughly back down to the bed, kissing him hot and heavy. He reaches down and wraps his hand around Richie’s cock. Richie hisses into his mouth as Eddie pumps slowly. “Can’t believe you made me miss that show,” Eddie says low into Richie’s ear.

“Thought—fuck—thought it would be nice to just—shit, Eds—just get right to it,” Richie pants.

“It will be,” Eddie says, trailing his hand down from Richie’s cock to slip three fingers inside him. Richie arches up, moaning. He’s dripping wet and more than gotten himself ready. Eddie will be able to push right in. “But if you do this again, I won’t fuck you. I’ll make you just sit there.”

“You’re real fucking mean,” Richie says, fists full of Eddie’s shirt. “I don’t know why I like you.”

“Shut up, and I’ll remind you,” Eddie says, unbuttoning his shirt and reaching for the condom Richie put on the pillow by his head.

After they’re done and cleaned, chests still heaving as they try to catch their breath, Eddietakes Richie’s hand, intertwining their fingers. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Richie’s knuckles. “I’m dead fucking serious,” Eddie says. “Don’t ever start without me again.”

“God, you’re bossy,” Richie says. “Compensating for your vertical failures?”

Eddie tugs at Richie’s hair. It elicits exactly the noise Eddie wants to hear. He’s maybe a little too into the noises Richie makes involving anything with his hair. “How was it,” Eddie asks.

“What,” Richie asks.

Eddie turns on his side, and Richie mirrors him. They’re close enough that Eddie is probably only slightly blurry in Richie’s vision. “Opening yourself,” Eddie says. “By yourself.”

Richie flushes. “Oh, um, it was—I don’t know,” he says.

Eddie arches a brow. “You don’t know?”

Richie’s flush deepens. “It’s weird, ok,” he says. “I mean, it’s sex stuff so it’s kind of fucking awkward doing it alone, but, you know, I was thinking of you the whole time, so it still felt good. Really good.” His eyes flit to the side. “Not as good as when you did it.”

Eddie cups his hand around Richie’s cheek. Richie meets his gaze again. “Can’t say I hate that,” Eddie says.

“Brag, brag,” Richie says, circling his fingers around Eddie’s wrist.

“Well, if it’s really what you want, moving forward, you can do all the work, and I’ll just sit back while you take a ride,” Eddie offers and in no way at all means it. He doesn’t doubt at all that it would be very visually pleasing to watch Richie open himself up and just lie back while Richie sits on his cock and rides him to the point of blowing out his back. And they can definitely try that out, but Eddie likes setting the pace. He likes being the reason Richie makes all those wonderful noises. He very much likes bending Richie over whatever flat surface and fucking into him.

He’s clearly not alone in that thinking. Richie’s brows pinch, and he says in a casual tone that isn’t actually casual at all, “Naw, I’m lazy.”

“You’re a fucking slob,” Eddie says, leaning forward and catching Richie’s bottom lip between his teeth.

``

Eddie knows he’s a little paranoid about a lot of things. It makes him good at his job, always on the alert for any sign of where disaster could strike. But it’s hard to call it paranoia when he’s right, and he knows he’s right about Myra noticing his changes in behavior.

Eddie offers to run errands more, pretending to be a good husband but really just looking for windows where he can actually call and talk to Richie. Other women might think it was nice to have their partner offering to help around more. Even housewives—like Myra; if there’s ever been anything in his marriage Eddie’s been proud of, it’s that he’s done well enough that his wife doesn’t have to work if she doesn’t want to—might think it was sweet.

But Myra’s brainwaves are often a little too similar to Eddie’s. She worries even more than he does. So his offerings seem less to her like sweet gestures and more like he’s up to something. He knows she’s suspicious of something. He doesn’t know if she’s considered the reality—that he’s having an affair; she’d assume with a woman—but she’s definitely trying to figure him out.

She insists that she should be the one to run these errands. “You work so hard, Eddie-bear. It’s the least I can do as a good wife.” Never mind that just a few weeks ago she talked all through dinner about how stressed going out for groceries makes her.

He’s long since changed the password on his phone. She’d cried when she’d noticed that one. “Why won’t you tell me what it is? I’m your wife. We don’t have secrets.” If secrets are anything unsaid, then secrets are almost all they have.

It’s hard to hold onto the upswings in his mood that come from seeing or talking to Richie. He sees Myra and gets hit with the reality of everything again. She sees him happy, and she knows it’s nothing she did so it scares her, and she does whatever she thinks she has to do to return them to their norm.

He can’t blame her, not really. She hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s him. It’s all him. He’s having a fucking affair with another man, and Jesus Christ, how did this happen. This is so out of character for him. So out of line that it’s stupid to even think about. Nothing about Eddie has ever been this type of person. He’s the type to sit there and grin and bear it. He’s the type to make the safe choice. But it’s Richie, and Eddie feels Richie so deep in his bones that it’s a wonder he could ever forget him. Richie makes Eddie want and need in a way that he can’t see himself ever letting go.

``

Myra’s sister hates Eddie’s guts, and the feeling is entirely mutual. The feud has been growing for years, and Eddie doesn’t even pretend to be offended or hurt when he hears her voice coming from the speaker on Myra’s phone, telling her in plain terms that of course she wants Myra to come to visit but she will not tolerate Eddie—she doesn’t say his name, just refers to him as That Man—in her house.

Myra’s always had an odd stance on the feud. She complains about it but never does anything productive for either side. Eddie thinks she might like it a little bit. It’s attention. It’s having her sister tell her that she deserves more than Eddie. It gives her something else to worry over, to tell Eddie that it hurts her that she’s in the middle of it. It lets her hear Eddie repeat time and time again that her family’s distain for him won’t break their relationship.

He tells her what she needs to hear after the phone call. That they’re fine. Of course she should visit her sister. Of course travel is safe. Of course she deserves to see her. Of course Eddie won’t hate her for being gone for a few days. Hell, take more time, he offers, spouting off something about how isn’t she always in such a nice mood when she sees her family, go ahead and take more of that. Of course, he’ll be all right without her, if she’ll just make sure all his medication and dry cleaning and groceries are in order.

Not that he’ll need any of it, Eddie thinks, his phone burning in his pocket. Ok, the medications, yes, but fuck the rest of it. He can barely keep still through his reassertions to Myra that her trip will be perfectly fine. All he wants to do is call Richie.

Richie’s voice is heavy with sleep when he answers the phone. For half a second, Eddie thinks to tease him, but he did have a set last night. He sleeps in like a teenager the day after his shows. “Come to New York,” Eddie says.

“Hm, what’s the occasion,” Richie mumbles.

“Myr—“ Eddie stops short, cutting himself off before he can say her name. “I’ve got a long weekend free,” he says instead, hoping Richie is still too sleep addled to notice his slip. “Get here, and we’ll rent a suite. The works, my treat this time.”

Richie hums. “Heart-shaped bed and mirror on the ceiling,” he asks.

Despite himself, Eddie smiles, glad Richie can’t see it. “Try not to live up to the trash part of your name,” he says. He gives Richie the dates. “Can you come?”

“Yeah, always” Richie says. “Miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

And the works is what Eddie aims for, thankful all the while that he does have an account not accessible to Myra. Settling into google, Eddie expects he’s going to end up somewhere like the Ritz or the Plaza or maybe some other place on 5th Avenue. Something that immediately comes to mind when anyone thinks nice hotels in New York City. But as he’s scrolling through lists, he sees a room at the 1 Hotel Brooklyn that’s pretty much what he would expect from a Brooklyn joint in terms of the rustic decor, but it’s the hammock that grabs his attention. There’s a hammock set up with picturesque views of the skyline and the Statue of Liberty.

The view is whatever, but something about the hammock really grabs Eddie’s attention, his mind already full of the idea of just lounging in it with Richie. It’s a hammock. They’d have no choice but to be completely tangled up in each other. Eddie books the room immediately.

When Richie flies in, Eddie offers to pick him up at the airport, but Richie declines, citing the nuisance of the paparazzi. So Eddie goes to the hotel ahead of him, bringing along everything they could need for the next four days. Myra’s out of town. He’s taken off work. There is no reason they would need to leave their room at all if they don’t want to.

Eddie is at the door when Richie comes in, pulling him in tight and kissing him greedily. It’s been too long. Richie dumps his things on the ground without a care, arms sliding around Eddie’s waist and up his shirt. They make out against the door for a while before Eddie finally pulls away, only just enough to say, “Bed,” against Richie’s lips.

Richie hooks his hands around the back of Eddie’s thighs, lifting him up at a very poorly planned position. Eddie wraps his legs around Richie’s waist and laughs as Richie tries to carry him into the suite. They make it, but just barely. “Shut up,” Richie says as they collapse onto the bed, his glasses askew on his face, but he’s laughing too.

Eddie tugs Richie closer, hooking his legs back around him. “How did you manage to actually get broad but have no muscle at all,” Eddie teases, sliding his hands over Richie’s shoulders. It’s not entirely true. Richie has some muscle definition around his chest and shoulders, even a bit on his arms, but it’s certainly not from any effort on his part. He’s soft over it all, and Eddie might tease, but he loves it.

“Some of us are trying to age with grace and dignity, not cling to the fickle looks of youth,” Richie says, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck.

“You’ve never had an ounce of dignity in your life,” Eddie says. “How was the flight?”

“That really what you want to talk about,” Richie asks, his teeth finding Eddie’s pulse point.

“I knew you only wanted me for my body,” Eddie says. Richie blows a raspberry into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie will deny forever the scream giggle that escapes his lips. Richie starts laughing so hard he’s nearly crying. “Shut up and get off me,” Eddie cries, laughing himself, and pushing at Richie’s chest. Richie goes boneless. “Fuck’s sake, asshole. We should unpack your stuff. And I want to show you something.”

Richie is just as into the hammock as Eddie. They kick off their shoes, and Richie shrugs out of his horrible button up, and they climb in, Eddie settled over Richie. His arms loop up under Richie’s, curling around his shoulders as he settles into Richie’s chest. Richie’s fingers trail lazily up and down Eddie’s spine.

They talk for awhile about nothing in particular until Richie dozes off, Eddie not far behind him.

``

The theater is really a neat place. An old opera house converted into a movie theater. All the seating on the floor are large reclining chairs with tables for food and drink. The balconies have small couches and total privacy. It’s kind of weird to be out in public instead of holed up in the hotel. Weird but nice. Eddie tries not to think too much about how this is a date, a real honest to God date. Richie is curled up on the couch next to him, long legs folded up in a way that’s going to make for standing up at the end very uncomfortable. They’re holding hands, and Richie’s head is resting on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie feels so aware of every part where they’re touching, aware in a way he isn’t when they’re at the hotel rooms. He can feel the tension in Richie’s hand that only loosens when Eddie rubs his thumb soothingly over Richie’s knuckle and comes right back any time Eddie stops.

He chastises himself for his nervousness. They’ve been wrapped around each other naked. Eddie has been inside Richie. This should not be more nerve wracking than sex. But it is somehow. It’s public. It’s intimate in a different way. If anyone saw them—

They would just seem like a couple. Two men, but a couple nonetheless. Yeah, of course there are assholes out there who would have shit to say, might even resort to something worse than slurs, but there’s also plenty of people who wouldn’t even notice. Or would in a good way. Fuck’s sake, Eddie had seen two young men with arms around each other at a crosswalk the other day, and he’d been hit with an aching want to have Richie there, to hold onto him in front of the world like those two boys did.

He squeezes Richie’s hand, and Richie cranes his neck to look up at him. His brows furrow questioningly, and Eddie presses a kiss to his lips. Slow and deep, and Richie gasps into it. Eddie slips his tongue into Richie’s mouth, still slow and lazy. When he pulls back, Richie asks lowly, “What was that for?”

Because he can. Because every moment he isn’t touching Richie he aches. Because he’s in this so deep he doesn’t know how he could ever go back.

“Just cause,” Eddie whispers, curling his other hand over Richie’s cheek, rough—always rough, which really is a feat because Eddie watched him shave this morning—with stubble. He kisses him again, pulling until he’s laying down, Richie’s weight warm and comfortable over him.

They don’t kiss like this often enough, Eddie thinks. To be fair, they don’t get to kiss in general often enough, but they’re always so desperate, finally coming together after time apart or clinging to each other in denial about the impending separation. But this, lazy and comfortable, like they have all the time in the world, it makes Eddie’s stomach flutter. He runs his fingers through Richie’s hair, delighting as always at the way Richie shivers.

He smiles into the kiss, and Richie mutters, “You think you’re real fucking clever, don’t you?”

“Don’t think it,” Eddie says, dragging his knuckles from Richie’s temples, around the back of his head, and back again. Richie practically purrs. “I know it.”

Richie mouths at Eddie’s neck. “You’ve got a kink for my hair kink,” Richie says. “Weirdo.”

“If you think that’s weird, I recommend you stay far way from the internet,” Eddie says.

Richie huffs a laugh. “Do I want to know your google search history?”

“Far less bullshit than yours, asshole,” Eddie says, pulling Richie back up to kiss properly.

They miss the entire second half of the movie, which Eddie wasn’t interested in anyway. Far better to have all his attention on Richie for the limited time available. Because it’s always a crap shoot of when they can match their schedules together. Eddie can’t believe they’ve been as lucky as they have. It worries him when he stops and thinks about it. Everything so far has been going so much better than he expected, and he keeps waiting for their luck to turn around.

But he pushes the thought away. It has no place in his head when he’s got Richie in his arms.

They get pizza on the way back to the hotel, which of course leads to a heated debate over New York vs Chicago. Richie pretends to gag, acting as if he can barely stomach the slice, and Eddie slams their shoulders together, pushing him around the sidewalk. Richie pushes back. It’s all the touching they dare to do in public, especially after Richie was recognized on the way to the movie by a group of college kids on the subway.

“Told you the subway is nothing but trouble,” Eddie had said when they finally got away and above ground.

“Strongly disagree,” Richie had responded. “We would have missed that sick bucket drum solo if we took a cab.”

They take a lap in the park by the hotel, elbows knocking together. It’s dark out, dark enough that Eddie could take Richie’s hand. No one would recognize Richie out here, not at this time of day. He could do it. He wants to do it.

He doesn’t.

The park isn’t even enjoyable because now all he can think of is that he’s a coward. He’s a coward in a loveless marriage, having an affair with a man who makes him feel so much that it overwhelms him right down to his soul, but he doesn’t do the obvious thing. Because the obvious thing is risky, dangerous even. And Eddie isn’t a risk taker. It’s a wonder that he’s even come this far. It’s pure selfishness, and Richie doesn’t deserve that, but Eddie won’t let him go.

Can’t let him go.

He hates all this introspection. He hates thinking about his hypocrisy and selfishness. Hates having any negative thoughts around Richie. There isn’t time for it. He doesn’t want to waste time worrying. He just wants Richie.

Eddie nudges Richie off the path, back towards the hotel. Still a coward, he waits until the door closes behind them before he takes Richie’s hand. Richie turns towards him, eyes flitting down to look at their tangled fingers and then back up again when Eddie cups his other hand around Richie’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. The same kind of kiss from during the movie. Slow. Unhurried. It burns all the same.

They make their way to the bed, shedding clothes as they go. Eddie pulls Richie over him, skin on fire at every point of contact. For a long while, they just kiss and trail hands over each other. There’s no rush at all, and it isn’t until Eddie has rolled them over and has two fingers inside Richie that he realizes they haven’t even said a word. Richie’s breath is heavy against Eddie’s mouth, air mixing between them. Richie is almost unnervingly quiet. He just holds on tight to Eddie’s arms, one hand slowly moving back and forth from griping Eddie’s shoulder to sliding through his hair.

Eddie drags his tongue against Richie’s as he pulls his fingers out. He reaches for the condom, and Richie starts to roll over. “Wait,” Eddie says. The first word they’ve spoken since they got back. It rings loudly. “Wait,” Eddie says again, this time a whisper.

Richie stays still, waiting for Eddie to continue, and Eddie doesn’t even realize how much he wants it until the words leave his mouth. “I want to see you.”

Richie’s eyes blow wide. His glasses don’t magnify his eyes the way they did when he was a kid, but Eddie thinks of that suddenly, how big and weird and cute it made him look. How strange Eddie always thought he looked when he didn’t have them on. Face to face, they’ll be close, close enough for Richie to see well enough, but. Eddie taps at the frame. “Keep these on,” he says, and Richie swallows thickly before nodding.

Eddie rolls on the condom, and Richie lies there, staring up at the ceiling. “Pillow,” Eddie asks, and Richie just blinks at him. Eddie pulls one from his side of the bed and slides a hand around Richie’s hip. “Lift up.” Richie does, and Eddie adjusts the pillow under him. Richie settles back in, eyes back on the ceiling, face screwed up in a way that says he’s trying hard for neutral, but it just isn’t working.

“Hey,” Eddie says, one hand on Richie’s cheek, the other squeezing his shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Richie says, too fast. “Nothing, let’s get you in there.”

“Rich,” Eddie says. “Come on. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Richie insists, but he’s still not actually making eye contact.

Eddie smooths his thumb over the lines between Richie’s brows. “Hey, seriously. We aren’t doing anything until you tell me.”

Richie blinks frantically. “It’s stupid,” he mutters.

“Just tell me, sweetheart,” Eddie says, and Richie’s breath catches. Eddie kisses him gently. “Tell me.”

“It’s so dumb,” Richie says. “I’m just—I don’t know—we haven’t, you know, done it like this, and—fuck. I’m nervous. I have no idea why. It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

“Hey,” Eddie snaps, and it stops Richie’s freak out before it can really get going. He blinks up at Eddie, finally meeting his eyes. “Hey,” Eddie says, gentle now, “it’s ok. You’re not stupid. If you don’t want to do this—“

“No, I do,” Richie says. He pushes his hands under his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I do. I’m just—“

“Don’t say stupid, you moron,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs.

“Fuck you,” Richie says.

“I’d rather fuck you,” Eddie returns.

Richie laughs again. “Yeah,” he says, cupping Eddie’s face in his hands. He leans up to kiss him. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Eddie slots himself between Richie’s open legs. He slips one arm under Richie’s to support his weight and trails the other down from Richie’s face to curl around his hip. Richie’s lips move softly against his, that same unhurried but still red hot fire from before. His legs fold up around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie sinks into Richie.

He has no words for how amazing it feels to slide into Richie while kissing him. Eddie pulls back, just enough that he can see Richie’s face, watching transfixed at Richie’s brows furrowing and then relaxing as Eddie bottoms out in him. Eddie moves slowly, every thrust something more like a rolling grind. He stays deep inside Richie, never pulling out more than halfway. And Richie’s face is beautiful through it all.

Richie clings at Eddie’s shoulders, nails digging in tight enough to leave marks. Eddie slows his movements further, pushing as deep as he can, and Richie arches up against him, gasping. Eddie drops back down, kissing him. How is this the first time they’ve had sex like this? How did Eddie not realize what he was missing?

Eddie picks up the pace, but just barely. Richie’s hips roll to meet him, and God, the look on his face. His cheeks flushed pink with sweat beading on his forehead. Pupils blown wide, the blue of his eyes darker than usual. Lips swollen and red, open, panting.

Eddie presses his forehead to Richie’s and reaches between them to circle his hand around Richie’s cock. He hisses, his back arching up and legs tightening around Eddie. Eddie keeps the strokes slow and smooth in time with the rolling of his hips. Richie gasps desperately for air, hands scrambling to hold onto Eddie’s shoulders and back.

“Eds,” is all Richie can get out before he’s coming. Eddie has to mentally remind himself to keep moving, because the sight before him is almost too much to handle. Richie is fucking gorgeous, red-faced, sweating, absolute desperation. Eddie surges forward to capture his lips, and Richie presses back, no finesse at all, just urgently needing the contact. Their hot breath mixes between them, and Eddie moves faster, chasing his own orgasm. Richie clings to him, only little whimpers escaping his lips.

The orgasm hits much harder than Eddie expects from the pace they set. Richie’s body clenches around him, and every part of Eddie is on fire. He gasps into Richie’s shoulder, biting down, a little too hard, he notices later. It bruises.

For a long moment, they lie like that, Richie wrapped around him, Eddie still inside, and both of them trying to pull air into their lungs like they just ran a marathon. Eddie gathers himself and starts to pull out, only noticing then how much Richie is shaking. He turns to kiss Richie’s temple, an apology on his tongue that dies when he feels the warm moisture.

Eddie pushes himself up, but Richie just clings tighter, trying to keep him in place. “Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie’s breath catches on a sob. The dam breaks, and still Richie tries to silence his sobs. Eddie gets up enough to hover over him, hands wiping away the sweat and tears and just holding onto him. “Richie, sweetheart, what’s wrong? God, did I—“ He doesn’t know how he hurt Richie, considering their normal brand of sex, but clearly he has.

Richie shakes his head, eyes clenched shut, but it doesn’t stop the tears from flowing under his glasses. “Baby, please,” Eddie begs, peppering Richie’s face with kisses. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” Richie gasps out. “I don’t know.”

It’s a lie, but Eddie can’t coax it out from him. For once in his life, Richie goes totally silent, even as Eddie cleans him up and holds onto him and whispers reassurances and apologies. Richie just shakes his head, face pressed into Eddie’s neck. Eddie has no idea what more to do or say. He doesn’t know how they could come off sex like that, sex that fucking jarred his entire soul, and end up like this.

It isn’t until much later, as he’s slipping off to sleep, that Richie murmurs, “Sorry I’m like this.” Eddie’s heart breaks a little, and he feels even more like he’s done something horribly cruel to Richie. He just doesn’t know what.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude from Richie’s POV.

Leaving Eddie after their weekends together always sucks. Eddie has never been to Richie’s place, but every single time Richie walks away from Eddie and comes back to an empty house, it sucks. It sucks now more than ever this time.

Richie drops his duffle and leans up against his door. He rubs at his eyes. Swollen and tired from fucking crying in the bathroom both on the plane and after landing. He’s a goddamned mess and a complete fucking idiot.

He’s gotten over the embarrassment of crying in the cafe bathroom the first time they really kissed and Eddie’s watched beeped to alert them that he needed to leave. It had been an intense couple of days, a lot of emotions, and fuck, he’d just gotten something he’d been longing for since he was ten years old.

He’d forgotten Eddie somehow. The intense wave that had hit him, the fire in his chest that roared to life seeing him standing there with that little grin that always manages to look both annoyed and amused, Richie has no idea how he forgot, but it all came rushing back with force of a fucking freight train bursting from the fog of forgotten childhood memories. Richie remembered Eddie, remembered the crush that had turned into real and overwhelming love that he would never have dared to speak to. They grew up in BFE Maine, a town full of bigoted assholes. It was the 80s, the AIDs crisis. Richie would never have dared say anything, but God, he had felt so much, too much for a kid. And seeing Eddie again, both of them fully grown, it hadn’t been any less, despite the years since Richie last thought of Eddie. It was all still there. A huge hole he’d never really noticed in his heart had filled instantly, perfectly Eddie shaped.

It was enough just having Eddie back in his life, just knowing him again, being able to talk or actually meet up on the rare occasions their schedules might line up. But Eddie kissing him, Eddie saying he wanted him, it was more than thirteen year old Richie could have ever even imagined, much less thought was a possibility. It was more than Richie right now could have ever dared want. So, yeah, he cried. It was a lot.

But it’s not the only time he’s cried around Eddie. It happens almost every time they have sex, but luckily Richie can usually hide it by just burrowing his face into the pillow until Eddie brings him a wet cloth to clean up with. He has time to get his shit in order. There hadn’t been even a sliver of a chance this weekend, not with Eddie wanting to see him.

Which, Holy fucking Christ. Face to face. Seeing him. There’s no chance to pretend the sex is something else. No way that Eddie might be just closing his eyes and imagining a woman every time they fuck.

Because Eddie is married to a woman. He doesn’t talk about her to Richie—Richie doesn’t even have any clue what her name might be—but Richie knows there’s a new Mrs. K in Eddie’s life. The ring had always been on his finger before, but Richie hasn’t seen it since the cafe. Starting with the Yankees game, Eddie hasn’t worn it around him. Honestly, Richie doesn’t know which option is worse, especially when he sees Eddie fiddling with that finger as they part, clearly thinking about making sure to put it back on before he gets home.

To his wife, Jesus fuck.

He’s a goddamned home-wrecker. A big, gay home-wrecker. And Eddie is—what? Bi? Having a midlife crisis? Just fucking bored?

Richie pushes off his door, leaving the duffle on the floor to deal with later. He shuffles into his kitchen and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. He doesn’t bother with a glass. He falls onto his couch—some ridiculous mid-century modern thing, unnecessarily expensive and in no way comfortable, much less actually long enough for him to sprawl out on—and drinks until he feels weepy. He’s cried too much today, not that that ever seems to matter to his fucking tear ducts. They’re fucking traitors, always ready to go again.

He rolls out a joint, hoping that will mellow him out some. It works a little. He’s at a weird stage of too drunk and just a little high. He futilely burrows further into the couch, the urge to cry passing and a heavy weight settling over his heart.

He’s in love with Eddie. He had been as a kid, forgot, and fell all over again. Other people would probably call that fate, two people coming together again after twenty-five years. But Richie doesn’t consider himself an optimist, much less a romantic. Eddie is so much to Richie, more than he really understands, a huge piece of his heart Richie didn’t even realize he was missing, but that’s not coming back to Richie. On his better days, he thinks he knows that Eddie cares about him. Likes his company. Likes what they do together. But Richie doesn’t have too many good days. And today certainly isn’t one.

He’s pathetic, he knows. Everything about him is a fucking lie. Doesn’t write his own shows. Can barely admit what he is to himself, much less the world. He gave up trying to fuck women a long time ago. He could do it, but he hated the way he felt even more than after fucking men. With men, it’s all shame and fear clawing icy around his heart and a mortifying little voice that whispers _yes_. With women, an empty hollowness that somehow hurts more than all the absolute terror of being exposed as queer.

Fuck, Richie isn’t a person who expresses his emotions well. He runs from them, hides everything behind stupid jokes, but right now, he really wishes he had someone he could talk to about this, about Eddie. But there’s no one. There’s a hole in his heart that feels like the empty space Eddie filled when they met again, but Richie doesn’t think he’s ever had a friend like that, someone he could actually be himself around and honest with. Which, again, fucking pathetic. What does it say about him that the only really meaningful relationship he’s ever had in his life involves him being someone’s fuck toy on the side?

So this is Richie’s life now. He’s having an affair with a guy he’s been in love with since he was a kid. The guy is married to a woman. It’s long distance, and Richie doesn’t actually know where he really stands with Eddie because they can’t talk about the elephant in the room. Richie can’t bring it up, because what if he asks Eddie to choose and he chooses his wife? He’s fucking pathetic. He would rather be some shameful secret—not like that’s anything new to him—that Eddie has to hide than to be nothing to him at all.

And probably the most pathetic thing, the thing that sucks most of all, is just how happy Richie actually is. He’s happier with these scraps than he ever remembers being. He’s in love with Eddie, so deep in his bones and soul, that it doesn’t really matter how little Richie actually has of him. When he really lets himself think about it, it makes him just as miserable as it does exuberant.

It hurts loving Eddie like this. It hurts seeing the pale strip of skin on his ring finger. It hurts that neither of them shows the other any real affection in public settings. It hurts every time Eddie’s phone lights up with a call or text from his wife. Everything he feels, everything he can’t say, it all sits on his chest so heavy Richie feels he may suffocate. And somehow, he’s supposed to live like this.

Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. It’s bullshit, Richie thinks. He had loved Eddie and lost him once. It was easier back then. Not that Richie has ever dealt with anything in a healthy manner—drugs and alcohol are his immediate go-tos—but that crippling loneliness, that weight on his chest that was a hunk of lead at the least and staring down a bottle of pills at the most, but back then, back when he didn’t remember Eddie, he just told himself this was who he was. He was a depressed, sometimes suicidal, miserable, piece of shit who was incapable of forming any real and lasting bonds with people. It was easier to just say this was him than to think that even one person out there could change that.

But Eddie has changed things. Has and hasn’t. He’s the only real light in Richie’s life, but it’s just a little flame. He can’t have Eddie the way he really wants. He can’t be open. He can’t put himself out there for people to see who he really is. The thought alone fills him with the worst sort of fear. Just thinking about it, trying to visualize speaking the words, it makes him want to throw up. And it’s crazy. It’s bullshit. He knows plenty of queer people. He’s been in conversations with them specifically about their queerness. He’s heard all kinds of coming out stories. Some were easier. Some were hard. Some were flat out life-threatening. And Richie nods in all the right places, says things he thinks he might want to hear, but he can never go that last step. He can never say he’s one of them too. It feels like stepping up to the gallows.

Christ, he needs fucking therapy. But again. The mortifying ordeal of being known. He absolutely can’t do it. Like an absolute fucking idiot, he had once filled out a mental health form at his doctor’s office with near honesty. She had then proceeded to seriously try to get him to agree to finding a therapist, going so far as to actually produce a list of recommendations she thought he would click well with. He’d nearly thrown up on the spot.

Richie lies on the couch for a long time past the sun dipping below the horizon and the house going dark. Not drunk enough. Not high enough. Just stewing in his thoughts. Miserable away from Eddie. Dreading what comes next for them. Because he fucking cried during sex and couldn’t hide it and couldn’t even play it off. He can’t talk to Eddie about it, so he can’t even begin to get a handle on what Eddie thinks of it.

That Richie is pathetic. That he’s too deep into this. That he’s misread the situation. That he thinks this is something more while Eddie is just here to get something on the side.

``

The next morning—not morning at all, well into the afternoon—Richie rolls himself off his couch, wincing as he stretches the stiff muscles in his back. He brings the whiskey bottle back into the kitchen, filling the first cup he sees with a generous pour. He stands at his counter drinking it in measured sips. His glasses are pushed up on his forehead, and he thinks he’d hate himself more than usual if he looked in a mirror right now.

He doesn’t have much by way of groceries, not anything that can be prepared quickly and with little effort other than some frozen options. He throws a pizza into the oven, going that far only because it’s too big to fit in the microwave. Good enough. His laptop sits charging on the counter, and he pops in a coffee pod and brings it all over to the table to check his emails. Plenty of spam from companies he only shopped at a couple of times but no matter how many times he tries can’t get off their subscription lists. Bank statements and a phone bill. A notice from his writing team that one of the guys is going on paternity leave for a couple of weeks. His manager checking in.

That one Richie responds to. Short and simple. Just tells him that he wants to do a tour, doesn’t care where or for how long. Hell, the more grueling the better, considering Richie just needs it as a distraction. He can’t wallow about Eddie every second of his waking hours if he has to memorize material and travel and perform.

And the tour is grueling. He makes a ton of money off this thing, and he’s fucking exhausted. Nearly all conversations with Eddie are through text. He doesn’t have time for much else.

Or. When he does have time, he just doesn’t call. He pretends he’s even busier than he is. Pretends he’s more tired than he is. Pretends that the New York days are so tight that he can’t make any time to meet Eddie, not even for a quickie in a bathroom. Pretends he didn’t specifically request the New York days be like that.

There’s disappointment evident in Eddie’s voice when Richie tells him. It cuts deep into Richie’s heart, and he hates himself for this. He hates hearing that tone from Eddie, hates that he put it there. Hates so much that he’s clearly sabotaging himself.

He doesn’t know why he’s like this, why he purposefully fucks up everything that comes his way. A therapist really would have a field day with him. He’s on his way to forty, and he has never once had a real and serious relationship, one that actually meant something. It was never going to happen with a woman; he’s at least honest enough with himself to admit that. But even around the absolute gut wrenching terror of being exposed, he can’t even do it with men. He always finds a way to screw anything remotely positive up. Every relationship that’s had some lasting power has been fucked in some way. Too heavy drug and alcohol abuse usually. Guys who were bad for him, just enabled or even actively pushed him into shitty situations. Even with Eddie, the best thing that’s ever come his way, Richie is just a fucking home-wrecker.

His comedy is fucked too. Sure, it makes him really good money. He’s well known, always sells out, gets fucking blurbs written about him in celebrity gossip rags, but it’s all bullshit. It’s not him. He doesn’t write his own stuff, hasn’t since he actually started taking this seriously as a career and got a manager. The material is shitty, disaster-ridden, crude, and so fucking straight. Trashmouth. The only thing about himself that actually makes it into the routines. And just because it’s all fucking crude, and he randomly remembered the nickname one day.

No real friends. Next to no relationship with his parents. Most days Richie doesn’t think he’s really a full person. Something is wrong with him. Very wrong. The closest he feels to right is when he’s with Eddie. But here he is, fucking that up too. Because he doesn’t foresee himself doing anything productive about this. To do that he'd probably need to be in possession of one healthy braincell. No, Richie knows himself a little too well. He won’t say anything, and if Eddie brings it up, Richie won’t handle it right.

God, he kind of wishes he had the time to go on a bender right now. What’s one more fall off the wagon? It’s not like he’s ever been so bad his manager threatened to drop him. Like, it’s Hollywood shit. Who doesn’t have at least a little bit of a coke problem?

The nightmares aren’t exactly helping things either. Richie’s always had them, as long back as he can remember. He wakes up most nights dripping in sweat and a visceral sort of terror freezing all the blood in his veins, heart pounding, lungs seized up tight, and a scream dying in his throat. He can never remember what the dreams are about. It’s all just out of reach, coated in thick fog that only gets darker as he tries to grasp at the fading images.

Eddie being around helped. It’s not just that Eddie’s a warm body next to him, some other living presence in the room. The nightmares were still around any other times Richie’s shared a bed with someone. Two of his college roommates had requested transfers, not because Richie was loud and annoying and messy, but solely because Richie’s night terrors scared the shit out of them and kept them from getting any decent rest themselves.

But Eddie eases things. Richie still has the dreams, but he wakes up with Eddie’s arms around him, and he feels protected, like Eddie’s fought off the demons himself. Richie has only had one dream bad enough that Eddie woke up too and asked Richie what it was about. Richie hadn’t been able to give him any answers, and Eddie had just pulled him back into his arms, tucked Richie’s head under his chin, and slid fingers through his hair until Richie fell asleep again.

Even Eddie not being physically there but just in Richie’s life had some positive effect, but it’s all slipping away again as Richie purposefully pushes away and answers calls with short texts. The New York nights are especially horrible. It’s like the demons haunting his dreams—and yes, Richie is fully aware those demons are just his own fucking brain—know just how close Eddie actually is and are fucking taunting him.

It takes everything in him to resist calling Eddie, to give in to how close he is and beg him to find some excuse to give his wife to slip away. He doesn’t even need anything more than seeing Eddie, just laying eyes on him, maybe touching his arm just to know he’s real. Fuck, he considers offering to even go to wherever Eddie wants him, his own fucking garage if Eddie doesn’t want to bother with the effort of going out, and letting Eddie take whatever he wants.

He has to resort to shoving his phone under the mattress and drinking himself so sick that his manager rakes him over the coals when Richie finally drags himself to the venue a good half hour later than their agreed on last minute deadline. But whatever. He does the set. Steve can get off his ass about it. At least he’s just hungover as hell. At least he’s not drunk or high.

And after, it would be so easy. It’s New York. It would be so easy for him to go out and find something to take this edge off. He could go out and spend the rest of the night in a bottle of whiskey, finishing it off with snorting a line of coke off some twink’s dick. He could just go do any of that, anything to push away the desperate fucking siren song that is Eddie only mere miles away.

The thought alone feels like cheating. Which is fucking preposterous. Richie has never given much of a shit if he wasn’t the only one on some guy’s current fuck list. He’s never given a shit about he himself fucking whatever was available when he wanted to get it. It’s never mattered before. Even the times when he thought he felt something, even when he dared to think of whatever it was as a relationship, it hadn’t mattered.

But with Eddie, fuck, with Eddie, Richie can’t. Eddie has all of Richie’s heart, even if he doesn’t want it, even if he doesn’t know it. Even if they aren’t actually what Richie wishes they could be.

Because they aren’t a couple. They aren’t. Richie is just a fucking secret, Eddie’s little number on the side, because for whatever reason his marriage isn’t fully doing it for him. Richie is the Other Woman, a scandal waiting to happen. Just a sad sack, a fucking idiot who thought it would be a good idea to go ahead and fall in love and start up and affair with a guy he hasn’t seen since he was fifteen.

Richie wants it to be different. He wants with an ache that leaves him breathless and hurts down to his soul. But it’s never mattered what Richie wants. He doesn’t ever get it, and he’s certainly never done anything to deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a bummer. In that grand tradition of all romcons, it’s gotta get worse before it gets better. Also, sorry it’s so short. Quarantine’s giving me a lot of free time but very little energy


	6. Chapter 6

The call is much shorter than calls like this usually are. But that’s been par for the course lately. What used to be near daily calls on his commutes have become maybe two or three—if he’s lucky—times a week. Eddie wants to tell himself that it’s just because of Richie’s latest tour, but that hadn’t stopped him on the last one.

And the tour has been over for nearly three weeks.

“I’m going to be in Chicago all next week,” Eddie says, hands tight on the wheel. Traffic inches forward. “It’s short notice, I’m sorry. Will you be in town?”

“Um,” Richie says lowly. “Sort of, I think. I’m out for a while, but I get back maybe Wednesday night? I’d have to check my calendar.”

“Oh,” Eddie says awkwardly. That’s not really an answer Richie’s ever given before. Richie usually knows his schedule off the top of his head. “I mean, if you can’t—“

“I have some days free,” Richie says. “I just have to check. What day do you fly in? I’ll get a hotel set up.”

“Oh—um—Monday,” Eddie says. A hotel? Why? Richie lives in Chicago. He lives alone.Why couldn’t they just stay at his— “FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Eddie hollers as a car cuts him off, nearly clipping his right headlight. He lays on the horn for a solid five seconds.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie says. “Son of a bitch almost hit me.”

Richie just lets out a distracted little hum. No laugh. No joke. None of the usual commentary on Eddie’s road rage. Eddie pulls on his bottom lip. Something is wrong. Something’s been wrong. He opens his mouth to ask, but Richie says, “I’ll let you know the booking info as soon as I get it done. But, hey, I’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah, ok,” Eddie says. His throat suddenly feels dry. “I miss you.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, his voice soft. The call ends, and Eddie is left feeling like he swallowed a rock.

Something is definitely wrong, and Eddie has no idea how to get Richie to talk to him. Childhood memories are vague, but he does remember that Richie has never been one to talk openly about emotions. He always hid everything behind jokes. Eddie had rarely been able to get Richie to talk. A distraction, sure, Eddie could do that easily and best of all, but actual words, no. That had always been—Eddie blanks on a name.

Well, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how it feels like Richie is pushing away from him, and Eddie doesn’t know how to fix it. Richie has become so important to him, an anchor, just about the only thing in his life Eddie really enjoys. To lose him—Eddie can’t even think it.

Talk to him. Eddie knows that’s the answer, or at least the best option available. But he has no idea how to go about it. And hell, even when Eddie has tried, Richie won’t have it. Because Eddie did try. He asked Richie why he was crying, but Richie wouldn’t answer. And it fucking haunts Eddie that he did something to make Richie feel like that.

Because that’s when it all started, this whole slide downhill. It started with Eddie doing something that hurt Richie, and then the tour started up, and it’s just widened the gap between them. Eddie doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s in New York; Richie has been jumping all over the country, always so busy that Eddie can’t get the time in to even try to do something about it.

The house smells like fall when Eddie gets home. It’s September, and Myra never wastes time lighting up cinnamon scented candles. She calls out from the kitchen that dinner is nearly ready, and Eddie drops his briefcase on the entry hall table and hangs his coat on the rack. Some kind of rice bowl, pumpkin with balsamic chicken that she found on a gluten-free, mostly vegan mommy blog. Eddie hates pumpkin, but he eats it dutifully, partially listening to Myra’s chatter about the steps she took in the recipe to make sure it fit both their dietary restrictions, but mostly thinking about Richie’s soft and distracted tone during their call.

He goes running after his dinner has settled, up and down the neighborhood, pushing himself further and faster than his asthmatic lungs can handle. He has to stop three different times to take a hit from his inhaler, and finally he gives up, walking back to the house in a slow shuffle. The exertion does nothing to ease his nerves. He just feels more wound up. He can’t sleep in the same bed as Myra that night. His entire body is alight with jitters, and his brain can’t slow down turning over every scenario of what Richie might be thinking about them, why he’s pulling away. Is it whatever Eddie did that hurt him? Does he think all the effort of seeing each other in secret, booking hotels and flights and trying to match up schedules, just isn’t worth it anymore when he could have something closer to home? Is he bored?

Fuck, Eddie can’t stand it. He can’t stand it, but he knows he can’t ask. He can’t bring it up. He might risk really losing Richie if he insists on having this conversation, because God only knows what it might drag up. If he can just keep the flow going, even like it is now, he can still have Richie. He can’t risk doing anything to lose him. He’s a coward like that.

``

Eddie gets to the hotel as Richie is making his way in from O’Hare. It gives him another solid hour of anxiety to pack on top of everything else he’s been feeling since he called Richie about being in Chicago. The cherry on top of his shit sundae of utter panic that something too drastic has happened to them, that they can’t come back from.

He paces around the room, feeling like a trapped animal. He cracks at his knuckles, runs his fingers through his hair so much that he goes into the bathroom twice to wet it and brush it back into place. He checks his watch over and over, each minute taking a small eternity, and yet it’s no time at all before he hears the lock whirl as Richie pushes in the keycard.

The door shuts behind him, and the naked want and soft affection in Richie’s eyes steals the breath from Eddie’s lungs. Richie is here, here with Eddie, his arms reaching out, and Eddie goes to him as if they’re opposite ends of a magnet.

The tight knot Eddie’s stomach has twisted itself into eases as Richie’s arms fold around him, their lips slotted against each other. Richie clings tightly to him, and Eddie sets his worries aside. Stress. It’s probably just been stress that caused the tension between them. Being on the road, traveling all the time, not being at home in your own space, it’s got to really grate the nerves. That has to be it. Because Richie is soft and pliant in his arms, holding onto Eddie like he always does, like Eddie is a lifeline.

Eddie slides his fingers through Richie’s hair, softly, unhurried, and Richie melts. Eddie will never be over this, just how easy it is, how simple, to make Richie feel like that. They fumble out of their shirts and pants, falling back onto the bed and slowly rolling hips together. One hand stays in Richie’s hair; the other Eddie drags down his neck, across his shoulders, digging into the tense muscles. Richie sighs into his mouth.

Their legs tangle together, hips slowly rolling together. Richie drops his head into Eddie’s neck, breath hot against his collar bones. He’s a sweaty mess, but so is Eddie. They’re both shaking a little bit. Eddie doesn’t stop his careful massaging movements. Richie’s back is a disaster zone. He really ought to go see a chiropractor.

Eddie says so, and Richie just nuzzles further into his neck. “Don’t want anyone else touching me like this,” he mumbles. A little shock of jealousy shoots down Eddie’s spine, and he digs tightly into a knot, making Richie groan.

“Good point,” Eddie says, maybe a bit possessively.

“Bet you’re worse,” Richie says, his fingers ghosting up and down Eddie’s side. “Just a little ball of coiled up rage.”

Eddie huffs a little laugh and presses a kiss into Richie’s hair. “Roll over,” he says, and Richie does. Eddie rids them both of their underwear and pushes Richie to lie on his stomach, only able to ignore Richie’s leaking cock because of his sudden idea. He grabs the lube closer, but he won’t need it quite yet. He climbs up to straddle Richie’s hips and cups his hands around Richie’s shoulders for a proper massage. “Fuck,” Richie says, burying his face into a pillow. 

Eddie hums in response and slowly moves his hands over Richie’s back. It really is a fucking mess, not one that he can fix and certainly not while he is also achingly hard. He just keeps moving, making mental notes of the places where Richie squirms and tenses, where he relaxes again with a deep sigh after Eddie works out a knot.

Finally Eddie gets hands on Richie’s ass. He keeps up the same massage for a few moments. Then, he moves one hand back up. The other he drops between Richie’s legs and presses a finger against his hole. Richie jolts. Eddie leans down, kisses the small of his back, and reaches for the lube.

It’s a bit awkward, one hand still massaging Richie’s back and the other working him open, but holy shit, it’s beyond worth it watching Richie try and fail to lie still. He grinds his hips into the bed, and Eddie presses down hard on a knot. Richie whimpers but gets the message. His fingers curl into the sheets, and he stops. Eddie slips in another finger, immediately beginning to scissor. The noises Richie makes are muffled into the pillow.

When Eddie is satisfied that Richie has been properly prepped, he rolls on a condom and settles in behind him. Richie pushes up his hips, and Eddie goes back to massaging him, slipping his own cock between Richie’s legs and just gently sliding it over him. The friction is a fucking tease to both of them.

“Eddie, fuck,” Richie hisses. “Please, don’t—“ The tip of Eddie’s cock catches for just a second on his hole but then continues on. Richie lets out a beautiful whine. “Please.”

“Since you’ve asked so politely,” Eddie says, but really, he’s so hard that he hurts, and he doesn’t want to be outside of Richie for another second. For a moment, Eddie thinks of turning Richie over, getting to look into his eyes again, but he doesn’t. They haven’t talked about what happened last time, and Eddie can’t risk a repeat. He just wants to feel good, to make Richie feel good. So he pushes the urge away and takes hold of Richie’s hips, adjusts to the right angle, and sinks into him. Eddie hits Richie’s prostate, and Richie fucking wails.

Eddie keeps a relentless pace, Richie rocking back to meet every thrust, his body hot and tight around Eddie. He feels amazing, perfect. When Richie reaches under him, hand going for his cock, Eddie grabs him, intertwining their fingers and holding his hands in place. “I’m going to make you come untouched,” Eddie says into his ear, and Richie can only whine and buck back into him.

Eddie fucks into Richie, hard the way he likes, hard the way he knows Richie likes, hard like they usually do, where Eddie doesn’t make Richie sob like his heart’s been broken.

Richie comes first, gasping into the pillow and making a fucking mess of the comforter. Eddie doesn’t slow down. He keeps hitting Richie’s prostate—God, the noises Richie makes, the beautiful, obscene noises—as he chases his own orgasm. His fingers stay tangled up in Richie’s, clinging tightly. He drops his forehead between Richie’s shoulder blades, and Richie’s body tenses and shakes around him. “Richie, God,” Eddie groans into his sweaty skin. He’s so fucking close. Richie moans desperately under him.

“Richie. Richie. Richie.” Eddie just says his name over and over again like a prayer as his orgasm hits. Richie’s body pulls everything from him, and it’s all Eddie can do not to completely collapse on top of him. Eddie slides one hand—still grasping Richie’s—under him, across his chest, and settles over Richie’s wildly beating heart. Eddie hovers shakily over Richie, pressing kisses across his shoulders until he can finally muster up the will to pull out.

Richie drops fully to the bed, and Eddie goes into the bathroom to get towels to clean up. He takes a little longer than he usually might and hates himself for being a fucking coward. If Richie is crying, he should be out there comforting him, giving Richie whatever it is he needs, trying to understand why. But Eddie takes his time, pretends he’s just being thorough with himself and that he has enough soap on the towel to clean Richie up properly.

When Eddie finally comes back into the room, Richie has rolled over. His face is red and wet, but Eddie can’t tell if there are any tears mixed in with the sweat. He helps Richie get cleaned up and then pulls the sheets down. Eddie curls into Richie’s side, resting his head on Richie’s chest, right over his heart, still beating like a wild drum. Richie’s arms circle around him, tight and gentle at the same time, and Eddie thinks they must be ok.

``

Eddie does his best to not answer calls from Myra when he’s with Richie. Usually it’s not a problem. She’ll text, and he can make his answers as short as he needs to and get his attention back to where he’d prefer it be. But he feels obligated to answer today. They have a plumber coming out to take a look at a leaking pipe, something about which Myra knows nothing. Not that Eddie is any better. Sure, if it was a car, he could do just about anything, but plumbing? No. That’s the whole reason he called a plumber instead of trying to fix the issue himself.

He goes out onto the balcony to take the call. He figures that’s just polite. God knows he wouldn’t want to listen to someone else talking about plumbing on the phone. Myra keeps him on the phone the entire time the plumber is there. He knows she isn’t trying to be a pest. She’s just uncomfortable with a stranger in the house while she’s alone, and that’s not an unfounded fear. Highly improbable that anything would happen, but not out of the realm of possibility. And she clearly doesn’t want to be the one who has the final word on anything. She’d rather Eddie make that type of decision.

The call lasts something like forever. Eddie hums to show he’s listening—barely, but she doesn’t need to know that—to her fretting and then her gossip. Through the glass door, he watches as Richie reclines on the bed, glasses pushed up his forehead so he can look at his phone pressed nearly against his nose. On the occasions that Richie looks up, Eddie offers over-exaggerated shrugs that Richie’s shitty eyes will be able to make out. The looks don’t last long, and Richie goes back to frowning at his phone. Eddie wonders what he’s reading to make his frown lines that deep.

“Is this right,” Myra asks as she reads him the final bill. “It seems like a lot.”

“It’s the labor cost,” Eddie says, perking up as the end of this phone call finally comes into sight. “Parts usually aren’t expensive but labor is. Write him a check. Don’t use the card.”

“You made the transfer,” she asks.

“Yes, before I left,” Eddie says.

He sits through listening to Mrya write the check and show the plumber out. He hears the door shut and lock behind him, and then Myra exclaims, “He was here so long. That just doesn’t seem right. Eddie, I think you should follow up when you get back, just to make sure.”

“I’m sure everything is fine,” Eddie says. “The bill is about what I expected.”

He can practically see her wringing her hands nervously. “I just worry,” she says, and Eddie hums. He knows she does. “Well, anyway, have you checked your flight? Is everything on schedule?”

“I won’t know that until tomorrow, but I’ve checked-in,” Eddie says, cracking his knuckles and bouncing his leg. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it. There should be a bottle of red in the refrigerator. Go ahead and open it and watch a Hallmark movie. Relax.” Hallmark movies. Incredibly dumb, but Myra likes them despite that, says they’re soothing in their predictability.

“I will,” she says. “And you’re sure everything’s all right?”

“Yes,” Eddie says. “I’ll be home tomorrow, probably well after dinnertime, so you don’t have to wait for me. I can just grab something on the way. It’ll be easier.”

“I don’t mind,” Myra says. “We’ve got plenty of groceries.”

“We’ll play it by ear,” Eddie says, ready to get back inside. “Listen, I need to get going.”

“Of course,” Myra says. “Of course. I love you, Eddie.”

“Love you,” he parrots back and ends the call before she can say anything else. He heaves an exhausted sigh and slips back into the room. Richie, his glasses back in place over his eyes, doesn’t look up from his phone. “Sorry that took so long,” Eddie says, and Richie just hums. The frown lines are still there, maybe deeper than before.

“Plumbing issues,” Eddie says, feeling the need to explain at least a bit. Richie answers with the same hum. It twists uncomfortably in Eddie’s gut. “It’s after one. Do you want to go get lunch somewhere?”

The same hum again. Eddie frowns. “Ok, what the fuck’s the matter,” he asks, and finally Richie looks up. His expression is trying for carefully neutral, but Eddie knows him too well. He can see through it.

“Nothing’s the matter, Eds,” Richie says, turning his attention back to his phone, and the nickname grates against Eddie’s nerves. He usually likes it. He’ll insist up and down that he hates it, but it’s a name that only Richie uses, and so he loves it. But right now, it’s nails on a chalkboard.

“I’m sorry the call took so long,” he says, not sounding slightly sorry even to his own ears, “but I’d like to make sure I’m not going home to a busted pipe and flooded basement, if that’s all right with you.”

“Fine by me,” Richie says in a dismissive tone that makes Eddie want to hit something.

“Can you grow up for a fucking minute and just tell me why you’ve suddenly got a stick up your ass,” Eddie snaps.

“No stick,” Richie says not casually at all. “That’s not my style.”

Eddie huffs and crosses his arms. “Sure seems to be based on all the evidence.”

That makes Richie look up. “Not like you’ve ever offered,” he says tersely after a moment.

“Do you want me to,” Eddie asks, despite how off topic. But Richie just shrugs and looks away again. “God, you’re an asshole,” Eddie grumbles, and Richie laughs. It’s a vastly unpleasant sound.

“Yeah, I’m the asshole,” he cackles. “Me.” He shakes his head. His hair is a little longer than usual, overdue for a cut, and it flops across his forehead. He makes pointed eye contact and then lets his gaze slip down to Eddie’s left hand.

Eddie drops his hands to his side, fast as if he’s been burned. He curls his hands into a fist, loosening the hold to crack at the knuckle of his ring finger before clenching them tight again. Richie meets his eyes again, and Eddie should feel ashamed. He should feel like an asshole, because he definitely is, but something about the way Richie is calling him out, it makes him misplace everything that he should put on himself and turn it on Richie instead.

“Haven’t heard any complaints before,” Eddie says.

“Fucking Christ,” Richie groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Are you fucking shitting me, Eddie?”

“I’m not fucking shitting you, Richie,” Eddie snaps, cutting a hand in the air to punctuate his words. But he doesn’t want to argue about that. He doesn’t want to look that in the face. So he turns things back onto Richie. “Look, you’ve been weird lately. And it’s not the tour. That’s been over for weeks.”

“There’s more happening in my life than doing tours and you railing me,” Richie says.

Eddie manages to bite his tongue in time to stop his immediate thought of ‘Like what?’ Because hell if he knows. Work shit is the only real thing Richie talks to him about, the only exception being texts when they’re apart about missing each other. Everything else is casual, jokes and memes. And, sure, Eddie doesn’t tell Richie about the minutia of his day-to-day life, because a lot of that involves Myra, and call Eddie crazy, but he doesn’t think he should be talking about his wife to the guy he’s fucking behind her back.

Eddie rubs his hands over his face and pulls in a steady breath. “Ok, fine,” he says, and his tone is still more biting than he intended. “Ignoring that, ignoring all that, how about you just explain to me what the fuck happened last time?”

“What,” Richie asks, expression slipping into something genuinely confused.

He doesn’t want to get into this. It’s such a bad idea, but Eddie’s brought it up now, and he’s going to get an answer. “We’ve only had sex facing each other once, and you cried.”

Richie’s face somehow manages to flush a deep red and pale considerably at the same time. “What’s that matter,” he snaps. “Who the fuck cares?”

“Well considering I was the other party involved, I fucking care,” Eddie says. “That’s not exactly what you want to see when you stick your dick in someone. Come on, Rich. You were upset about something, and you haven’t talked to me about it. You said I didn’t hurt you, but, fuck, man, what am I supposed to think here?”

Richie pulls his knees up towards his chest, looping his arms around them and dropping his head. “I don’t want to fucking talk about this.”

“Tough shit,” Eddie says. “I want to.”

“You can’t make me,” Richie says.

“The fuck? I can’t make you? Are you fucking ten years old? Real mature, asshole,” Eddie says through gritted teeth. He is quickly losing control of his temper.

Richie lifts his head just so Eddie can see his exaggerated eye roll. “Because you’re the pentacle of fucking maturity. So you wear suits and have a nine to five office job and a house in the suburbs or whatever. Doesn’t make you fucking better than me.”

“Where the fuck did that come from,” Eddie cries, blood pounding in his ears. “I never said—what the fuck, dude?” His jaw clenches so tight it hurts, and Richie averts his gaze again. “Fuck you, man.” Eddie stalks past the bed and grabs his shoes and jacket. “I’m going to get lunch. Do whatever you want.”

Richie doesn’t answer, doesn’t look up from where he’s locked his gaze on one of his hands, white knuckled as he grips at his elbow. Eddie makes sure to slam the door behind him. He storms down the hall, jabbing his finger against the elevator button until it opens.Exiting the lobby, he has no destination in mind. He doesn’t know shit about Chicago but figures eventually he’ll run out of steam and find himself at a sandwich shop or something.

What the fuck just happened? How had this turned into a fight? Eddie tries to think through the strange fog of his childhood memories, and he can’t recall a time he ever actually fought with Richie. Sure, they bickered a lot as kids. It worked for them. It was how they expressed their friendship, but actually fighting? A real fight like that? Things said with the intention to hurt? Eddie can’t remember one, and the feeling is so incredibly gut wrenching and alien, he has to assume nothing like this has ever happened.

It’s only after he finds a place to eat and opens his mouth to order that he realizes how much his entire skull hurts from clenching his jaw so tight. He takes his little order number and two beers and finds a table in the back. He pops open the first beer and takes a long sip. When the bottle hits the table, Eddie is still very angry, but he also feels utterly alone. It strikes him that this is the first time since he and Richie started this thing up that they haven’t been in the same place. They’ve never split up at all on their trips. But now Eddie is sitting here alone, and Richie is—hell, Richie could be anywhere. Still in the hotel. Out getting some distance like Eddie is.

Maybe he just went home.

Eddie buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and temples. Fuck. What if Richie goes home? What if he just leaves? Eddie was such an asshole—he knows; he knows he’s the one who’s the asshole in this, not Richie—he wouldn’t really blame him. But God he hopes Richie doesn’t leave. Eddie didn’t mean for this to happen. He’s mad. He’s upset. And he has a right to be about some things, but fuck, he can’t just leave it like this. And shit, if Richie does leave, Eddie can’t follow. He doesn’t know his address.

He eats his sandwich and drinks his beer, not really tasting anything as he stews in a particular form of misery. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to handle a fight with Richie. Myra, he knows what to do with Myra. It’s a formula he’s followed time and time again over the years of their marriage, but Richie. Shit. It’s completely new territory.

Everything feels like new territory lately. The distance no longer just physical but emotional too. Richie won’t talk to him, but in fairness, Eddie has his own things he isn’t willing to discuss. Because how is he supposed to talk to Richie about Myra? Wouldn’t that just be a shitty thing to do? He doesn’t ever want to think about Myra when he’s with Richie. He doesn’t want that staring him in the face, calling him what he really is. A shitty husband. A shitty—God, he doesn’t even know what to call himself in connection to Richie. Lover? Boyfriend? A fucking coward, certainly.

Leaving the sandwich shop, Eddie keeps wandering around the city, finding his way to the stupid Bean, walking the winding paths in Maggie Daley Park, and finally standing on the edge of Lake Michigan, staring out at the low waves rippling across the surface. It’s a hell of a view. Richie should be here with him, standing close enough that just a slight sway would press their shoulders together. In a better world, they’d hold hands and not care who saw, because Eddie wouldn’t have a wife he doesn’t love and he wouldn’t be scared to be seen touching another man.

He wants back what they had before, where they were just together, in each other’s spaces without cares, free to touch and taste and just be. No Myra. No deeply uncomfortable introspection about what it means that Eddie feels a roaring fire in his heart for Richie—another man—but never even embers of it with any woman he’s been with. No fear. Just being happy.

Eddie stands by the lake for a long while. The wind is cool and sharp with change of season. He thinks suddenly that if Richie were here, he might have some odd urge to jump into the water, pulling Richie along with him, swimming and laughing and thinking of summer.

Ridiculous. Eddie can swim just fine, but he’d never been allowed to go to the public pool as a kid. He hadn’t wanted to go. It was disgusting, a Petri dish of unknowable germs that no one in their right mind should ever want to touch, and jumping into Lake fucking Michigan would be just as stupid of an idea.

Eddie rubs his hands over his face. He’s been out long enough. He needs to go back and face the music, whatever it might be.

Despite how obvious it is that Richie has been crying—a sight that rips into his heart—the wave of relief that washes over Eddie seeing him still in the hotel room nearly sends him crashing to his knees. Richie is here. Eddie’s back. They both want to fix this.

Richie watches with red, swollen eyes as Eddie makes his way over to the bed. He sits down at the foot, just out of reach. “Where did you go,” Richie asks after a long moment of silence.

“Got lunch,” Eddie says. “Saw that stupid Bean. Stood by the lake. I thought about us jumping in and swimming.”

Richie’s lips twist up in a smile. “Man, can’t imagine you in any type of public water. I mean, would you even ever use a gym shower?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Eddie says, matching Richie’s small smile with one of his own. The silence stretches between them again. “Are we going to talk about it,” Eddie finally asks.

Richie’s shoulders hunch up around his ears. “Is it going to change anything?”

Eddie sighs. He doesn’t see how. He’s a coward. He can’t bring himself to touch Richie in public. And even if he could, Richie is a celebrity. He’s not an A-lister, but he’s really fucking well known. And considering how much of his material is about his disastrous dating life with women, Eddie knows it would get attention if they were clearly together in public. And if it gets noticed, Myra would find out. And, fuck, Eddie can’t deal with that. He can’t leave her. He can’t have her leave him. What they have, it’s all he really knows. He doesn’t know how to be without it.

“No,” Eddie answers. It hurts to say it, and it clearly hurts Richie to hear it, but he nods because he knows as well as Eddie does that this is what they’re stuck with. “I hate fighting with you. It fucking sucks.”

Richie pops a finger into his mouth, chewing at the cuticle. “Yeah, seconded,” he says eventually.

“Motion to just not do it again,” Eddie says, trying to joke. It doesn’t land, just sounds hollow. Richie hasn’t looked at him since Eddie sat down on the bed. Eddie scoots forward, just within reach if Richie nudges back. It’s a fucking small eternity before he does. The heavy weight on Eddie’s chest doesn’t disappear, but it does lessen slightly. He squeezes Richie’s hand, curling their fingers together.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

Richie shakes his head. “No, I am,” he says, still not looking at Eddie. “I knew, so like, what’s the point of getting pissed about it.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Eddie says. “I’m—calling me an asshole is me getting off light.” Richie winces, and Eddie scoots closer again. This time Richie leans towards him, and Eddie takes it as permission to press up against him. He slips his arm around Richie’s broad shoulders—God, he feels so small right now curled up like this—and pushes their foreheads together. “I’m sorry, Rich,” he says. “I—“

“Don’t,” Richie says, voice small. “Can we just—“

“Yeah,” Eddie says, lying back onto the pillows, Richie tucked up under his chin. Eddie pulls off Richie’s glasses to set carefully on the bedside table and just barely stops himself from calling Richie sweetheart. That would definitely be a mistake right now, despite how much Eddie wants to let Richie know that’s how he still thinks of him.

They lie together for the rest of the night, only moving to kick off shoes and wiggle out of pants. Eddie keeps his arms around Richie, one hand trailing up and down his spine, the other rubbing knuckles softly against his scalp. One of Richie’s big hands curls tight into Eddie’s shirt, the other rucking it up to splay out against Eddie’s back. Eddie wants to kiss him, but he keeps himself content with feeling Richie’s breath slowly evening out against his neck.

And the next evening, when Eddie walks into his house, ring back on his finger and Myra’s voice calling out from the kitchen, he feels more ashamed of himself than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I end a chapter on something not a bummer? The world may never know


	7. Chapter 7

“Tell me how it feels,” Eddie says against Richie’s lips, three fingers buried deep in Richie’s ass.

Richie moans under him, gasping when Eddie twists his fingers to hit his prostate. “Fuck, Eds, fuck. So good, so good. I want more. I want—ugh—I want your dick in me. I want to feel just full with you. Stuffed.”

“I will,” Eddie says, mouthing at Richie’s jaw. “I’ll give you everything.” He presses in relentlessly, not taking his fingers away from Richie’s prostate, and Richie whines, high-pitched and needy. “How do you want it, baby?”

“Deep, please, God.” Richie fists his fingers tight into the sheets. Eddie can tell he’s trying so hard not to reach down for his cock. He knows Eddie won’t let him touch it. “Eddie, please, please.”

Eddie pulls out his fingers, and Richie shakes, chest heaving and hips bucking back, seeking Eddie’s touch again. Eddie rolls on the condom quickly. Then he throws one of Richie’s legs over his shoulder and sinks into him in one, deep thrust.

“Oh shit,” Richie cries, moaning obscenely as Eddie pounds into him, giving him no chance to catch his breath. The view is gorgeous. Eddie doesn’t know which is better, watching where Richie’s hole stretches around his cock or the way Richie’s cock bobs against his stomach, fat and leaking. Eddie leans down, hands planted on either side of Richie’s head, folding Richie nearly in two so he can mouth at Richie’s jaw again.

“Talk to me, baby,” Eddie says, licking a line up Richie’s throat. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Full,” Richie gasps. “God, Eddie—fuck. More, please, more.” Eddie keeps himself steady on one hand, the other sliding across Richie’s thigh and grabbing his hip. He picks up the pace, sinking in as deep as he can. God, he loves fucking Richie like this. Loves the sounds he makes. Loves how tight Richie is around him, how hot.

“You take me so well,” Eddie says. “Fuck, you’re tight.” Richie’s whines become more frantic, more desperate, as he clings tight to Eddie’s arm. He’s close. Eddie folds him deeper, kissing his mouth wetly. He strokes his hand over Richie’s cock, thumbing at the head. “Come on, baby, come for me.” Richie does, spilling all over his stomach and whimpering into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie isn’t more than a few seconds behind him, his hips stuttering into Richie’s, his hand slowly pumping Richie’s cock until Richie lets out this broken noise that lets Eddie know he can’t handle anymore.

Eddie detangles them gently, not breaking his lips away from Richie’s. He kisses him slowly, tongue dragging over his, soaking up the noises Richie makes when he pulls out. God, he loves Richie’s mouth so much.

After they’re both clean, Eddie drapes himself over Richie’s back, rubbing his thumb lightly over tense muscles. “Good,” Eddie asks, lips ghosting across Richie’s shoulder.

Richie turns his head on the pillow, and Eddie cranes his neck to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” Richie whispers. “Yeah, always.”

“Tell me about it,” Eddie asks, and Richie’s brow furrows.

“Why,” he asks.

Eddie brushes his sweat soaked hair from his forehead. “I just want to know how you feel,” he says.

He thinks it’s straightforward enough—sort of a new position, and they aren’t exactly spring chickens; it might have been a bit uncomfortable, good in the moment but a literal pain later—but Richie just looks more confused. “How getting fucked feels,” he asks. “Like you’re trying to figure out if you want to try it?”

Eddie freezes for a moment, and Richie starts to frown. Eddie pushes up on his elbows, and Richie sits fully up, staring down at him, squinting a bit without his glasses. “I’m not sure,” Eddie says. “I mean—“

“Well, I guess, you’ve seen me,” Richie says, picking at his cuticles and eyes drifting away from Eddie’s gaze. “It’s—it’s good. It’s different, but it’s good. I mean, clearly, right? I always—I come every time, right? So it’s—it’s good.”

Eddie thinks about it for a moment. He knows he’s good at opening up Richie, but he hasn’t tried to finger himself. He’s got no idea what it would actually feel like. Richie takes everything so well, likes it so much, that Eddie has never given their sex life more thought to it. What they do works.

Is he being selfish? Should they be switching? People talk about being tops and being bottoms. Richie said he’s done both. He’s only bottomed with Eddie. Eddie has never thought to ask since that first time. They just fell into the rhythm.

Eddie tries. He tries to imagine Richie’s fingers in him, his cock. It’s possible. Of course it is; he’s done it to Richie countless times now. But Richie doing it to him—he doesn’t know. Richie’s hands are bigger than Eddie’s, fingers longer and thicker. And his cock, Eddie doesn’t feel small next to Richie, but there’s no denying Richie is bigger. Richie giving all that to Eddie, it’s more than what Eddie gives him, and he just doesn’t know how to handle that. Not when he can’t even bring himself to try it on his own.

Richie reads Eddie’s hesitance for what it is. “Don’t worry about it,” he mutters.

“Look, Rich—“ Eddie starts, but Richie just shakes his head and lies down, his back to Eddie. It’s not like earlier, Eddie feeling welcome to sprawl out over him.

“It’s fine,” Richie says, and it clearly isn’t. But Eddie doesn’t know what to do or say. He doesn’t know if he’d like it. And sure, he can’t know until he tries—like sucking Richie’s cock; he wouldn’t have guessed he’d like it as much as he does—but shit. This is different.

It’s like that night in New York when Myra was at her sister’s. Eddie’s fucked up. He didn’t know how that night, but he does today, and still he doesn’t know how to handle it. He doesn’t know how to deal with a Richie who is upset like this, and he hates it. He hates just seeing it and his own incompetence with fixing things.

He moves slowly, lying next to Richie and sliding his hand over Richie’s shoulder. When he comes to a stop, hand splayed over Richie’s chest, Richie sighs and brings his hand up to fold around Eddie’s.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says lowly, the words muffled against Richie’s neck. Richie squeezes his hand, and Eddie wonders how something that started so amazing could turn like this. How everything used to be so good but now nothing can go right.

``

Richie’s starting up a new tour. Hardly a couple of months after the last one and right on the heel of being in LA for a prolonged period doing voice work on some upcoming animated movie. He’s busy all the time. No time for texts. No time for calls. Eddie barely gets to speak to him. Anything he sends out gets short responses, and it grinds against Eddie’s nerves. Everything is so off. His mood is constantly sour, and he fights with Myra even more than usual. Work, stressful at the best of times but still something Eddie is very good at, is suffocating in its monotony.

He looks forward to whatever he can get from Richie, but it’s scraps, and Eddie can’t help but overthink it. But it isn’t really overthinking. Richie has been pulling away from him for a while now. Things aren’t like they were in the beginning. Eddie is still bursting to the seams with everything he feels, but it’s become clouded over, gray and miserable. More miserable than things were before in some ways.

They don’t talk about it. Of course, to talk about it, they would have to actually talk. Eddie wants to understand. He really does. He wants to understand it so he can fix it, but on the very rare occasions when they manage to get some time, he can’t make himself bring it up. He just doesn’t want to spend it fighting. He’s shooting himself in the foot, he knows. They can’t sustain things like this.

Richie finds a bit of time for him on the New York stop. It’s not much, but Eddie takes it. They meet up in Richie’s hotel, and Eddie immediately gets Richie’s cock into his mouth, relishes in the feeling of it hardening on his tongue. Richie trembles around him as Eddie fucks fingers into him while he blows him. They don’t make it to the bed. Eddie pushes Richie down across the table, sinking deep into him. Richie holds tight to the edges of the table, using the solid surface as leverage to push his ass back as Eddie thrusts forward.

After they’re done and cleaned up, Richie goes over to his bag, fishing out a change of clothes. “No chance you can get away anymore,” Eddie asks. “I mean, even just—“ He trails off, shrugging. He wants to say he’ll stay here overnight. He’ll find the excuse, whatever it is, to give to Myra. He’ll make it work, but Richie just shakes his head.

“Everything’s kind of coming down to the minutes,” Richie says. “Schedule is fully booked.”

“There has to be something,” Eddie says. This is the first time they’ve seen each other in nearly three months. Pretty close to the longest they’ve even been able to talk. A couple of hours isn’t enough. “It’s been like—it’s just been a while.”

“It’s my job, man. It’s not a regular nine to five,” Richie says, and Eddie is reminded sharply of that fight, and there’s only one way he can take it when Richie continues, “I can’t just drop everything and be your booty call.”

Eddie’s temper flares. “Booty call,” he echoes lowly. “You think that’s what’s going on here? You think I’m over here calling just fucking anyone to get my dick wet?”

“I don’t really know what you do, man,” Richie says, and his tone isn’t angry or defensive or snappish. It’s tired and defeated, like he really thinks maybe that’s what Eddie does, and it just makes Eddie angrier.

“Fuck you,” Eddie snaps. “Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck you, Richie.”

It’s not like that other fight. Richie’s shoulders don’t hunch up in defense. His face doesn’t twist in that unpleasant frown. He just slumps and looks small and sad.

Heartbroken.

Eddie can’t deal with that, so he sticks with the anger churning around in his stomach. He knows anger. Anger works.

“No,” Eddie says. “No, seriously. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me exactly what you think is going on here.”

“I really don’t know,” Richie says, and Eddie wants to march over and shove him. He wants to force Richie to react, to get just as angry as he is, fight back with him. Anything so that he doesn’t just stand there like there isn’t anything more to say, nothing worth fighting for.

“Do you even give a shit about this anymore,” Eddie asks. This. Whatever this is. Neither of them is willing to commit to an answer.

“What do you want me to say right now,” Richie asks. “You’re married, man. You’re married to a woman and I—“ He stops, shakes his head. He’s gone pale, eyes wide and wild behind his glasses, and Eddie’s immediate instinct is to try to take care of him.

But this is a fight, and Eddie is angry and selfish, so he pushes that down. “You really can’t come up with anything,” Eddie asks. “Not a single thing to say? You just don’t know?”

“Fuck, Eds,” Richie starts, and Eddie snaps back, “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Fine,” Richie says. “Whatever. That’s not the point.”

“So what fucking is,” Eddie asks. “Come on. Give me something here. Because you don’t talk to me anymore, like about anything, even dumb internet shit. It’s a whole fucking production to find time to see you. So what’s up? Do you even want this going on anymore? I mean, is it just me still in this? Say the word, man. Say the fucking word, and I’ll get out of your hair if I’m such a fucking bother to put up with.”

The words fly out of his mouth without any real say so from his brain, but it makes Richie finally look up at him. “You want me to,” he asks. Small. Why does he look and sound so fucking small? Richie grew up into this big, dumb Chewbacca looking motherfucker. He shouldn’t feel like something so small and delicate, something so breakable.

But fuck, Eddie’s been breaking him slowly over the months. How can he act like he’s the one being slighted when it’s Eddie who has made Richie cry? How can he stick around in this when he isn’t willing to give Richie what he deserves? He’s a coward, and fuck, is that what this is? Is he looking for the coward’s way out of this? Make Richie be the one to say it.

Yeah, that feels right. He’s miserable, and he doesn’t know how to pull the plug himself. Clearly. Just look at his marriage.

He sees Richie realize it just a second after he himself does. A tear falls from his eye, and Richie moves his hand lightning fast to wipe it away. His jaw goes tight with the effort to keep the rest of it back.

It’s out there now, this thing he dreads so much. Eddie opens his mouth, but the fight has all drained out of him at the expression of resignation on Richie’s face. It’s over, and they both know it.

Richie swallows thickly, and his voice shakes as he says, “No obligation. Not like we were—“ Richie trails off. Even in the end they can’t put a name to it. It deserved at least that much, but they can’t do it.

“Yeah, we weren’t,” Eddie agrees softly.

Richie’s eyes are wet, and Eddie’s are bone dry, which he distantly thinks makes no sense with how hollow his chest feels.

They say goodbye. Eddie wishes Richie luck on the rest of his tour. It comes out of his mouth almost robotic, like they are mere acquaintances instead of two people who found each other again after twenty-five years, slotting back into each other’s hearts like they’d never been missing in the first place.

Eddie leaves without looking at Richie, without touching him one last time. Outside the hotel, Eddie passes right by the valet station. He can’t drive yet. Hands shoved in his pockets, he wanders the streets of the Upper West Side, dipping into the the paths of Central Park. All the while his heart screams at him to go back, to tell Richie he didn’t mean any of it, that he’s sorry and he’ll find a way to make it all right.

Lies. Fantasy. The summary of their whole relationship.

Eddie stands at the edge of the Lake watching the evening sunlight reflect over the ripples in the water. He feels shell-shocked, unable to really comprehend what just happened. How they had ended it after such a pathetic fight. And so fucking unceremoniously. They just ended. Just “hey, let’s call it” followed up with “sure, ok.”

Over so quickly that Eddie feels frozen, the world spinning around him, but he’s not moving with it.

He’s fucked up. Eddie knows that with absolute certainty. He made the wrong call. But it’s the coward’s choice, so of course it’s the one that he took. All it would have taken was some semblance of a backbone. Leave his wife, leave the relationship that’s never going to be anything more than two broken people living together just because it seems like the thing to do. The most intense thing Eddie can say of Myra is just that she’s there. But Richie, Eddie feels Richie in his bones and soul, and maybe it would be work, maybe it would be a lot to deal with, but if he could just have the nerve to do something for himself for once in his life, Eddie might be able to have something that actually makes him happy.

But they’ve called it, and it’s done. Eddie won’t go back this time. He won’t try to fix it. He’ll just live with this what if buried away in his heart, the same as all the other things he might do or be if only he was brave enough to even try.

``

Eddie falls back into the miserable routine of life before Richie. Silent breakfasts, silent commutes into Manhattan, sitting silently at his desk working on reports, silent commutes back to Brooklyn, silent runs around the neighborhood, silent dinners. Rinse and repeat. The only thing to break the monotony are the fights with his wife that wear his patience thinner than they ever have. He doesn’t have Richie to look forward to. There’s nothing to take away the sting.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Time turns the pain into a dull ache, an ache that’s always there even on the days Eddie forgets to think of Richie. It always jars him when he realizes that he hadn’t thought of Richie that day. One week he spends nearly a hour trying to remember if Richie’s eyes are brown or blue. How could he forget something like that? Wasn’t it the color of Richie’s eyes that he had first recognized all those long months ago after his show?

But he does forget things. Forgets Richie’s favorite drink. Forgets if Richie would chew his lip or cuticles when he was nervous. Was he four or five inches taller than Eddie? Did he have freckles?

The shape of Richie, the one he could have sworn would be seared into his brain forever, gets foggy around the edges, blurring more and more until the image of him is almost as lost as childhood. Richie had come out of the haze of Eddie’s childhood, and now he’s fading back there, less and less substantial all the time until there comes a day Eddie doesn’t even remember that he’s missing something specific.

``

Eddie stretches out his neck, trying to control the blind panic threatening to take over him as he trades insurance information and accepts his ticket for running the red light. Derry. Mike.

Richie.

He has to go back to Derry. Richie will be there. Fuck.

Eddie hasn’t thought about Richie in he can’t even remember how long, which is fucking wild considering their relatively recent nearly year long affair. But now Richie is back in his mind, the image of him as sharp and clear as if he was here standing right in front of Eddie. Richie now and Richie then.

Myra wails when he returns home early, having not bothered to go into work. She wails about the state of the car and nearly loses her mind when Eddie tells her he’s going home and doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

She tries desperately to stop him, asking questions Eddie can’t answer. He doesn’t know why he needs to go back, but he promised Mike. The logical part of his brain says who cares. He hasn’t spoken to or seen or even thought of Mike Hanlon since he was in high school. He doesn’t owe anything to some childhood promise. But the rest of him, every instinct in him, despite how it screams that this is all very, very bad, he has to go. He promised, and the old scar on his palm burns.

Eddie doesn’t know what to expect, so he packs two huge suitcases, each of them weighing in at 49.5 pounds when he’s done. He shoves toiletries into his carryon and orders an Uber. All the while he has to ignore Myra’s cries, dodge his way past where she tries to block him.

There’s a direct flight to Bangor that Eddie can make it to the airport and through security just in time for. And the price is relatively cheap for the literal last minute. And after picking up his suitcases and getting a rental, he should make it into Derry just in time for the dinner reservations Mike has set up.

It’s like the stars are perfectly aligned for this spontaneous reunion, and Eddie has to take three puffs on his inhaler and fish out his bottle of Xanax from his carryon.

The drive from Bangor to Derry isn’t long, and Eddie’s hands grip tightly at the wheel on ten and two, his knuckles white. He keeps catching himself speeding and has to force himself to slow down. His stomach twists itself into a knot, and his chest feels tight at the suddenly familiar sight of firs and spruce lining the winding country road. All the deciduous trees are still bright green, glowing in the light of the setting summer sun. It’ll be fall soon, and the leaves will turn to blazing reds and oranges, but for now everything is golden and green.

The dread in Eddie’s chest, the heavy panic, builds thicker and colder as he crosses the town line and begins turning down familiar streets. The Chinese restaurant that Mike has made reservations at, Eddie doesn’t think it was there when they were kids, but Mike said it was over by the mall, and Eddie remembers the way instinctually. It feels different to drive it by car rather than bike.

He parks and climbs out of the car—so much smaller than his, too claustrophobic—into the humid summer air. The hostess leads him back to their table, and he trails off listing his various dietary restrictions to her when his eyes land on Mike and Bill.

“Holy shit,” he says.

The cold pool of anxiety in his chest washes away at the sight of his best friend. For a brief moment, Eddie startles, but yeah, Bill is still his best friend, despite the fact that Eddie hasn’t thought of him since he was eighteen. There’s a vague part of him that recognizes that Bill is Bill Denbrough, famous horror writer, but all Eddie really sees is the boy with serious eyes and a stutter and an innate sense of leadership that would have made any of them follow him anywhere, the boy who made Eddie feel like he wasn’t all alone, that someone would always be there to look out for him, a big brother.

Eddie hurries forward to hug him and then Mike, who has grown up exactly like Eddie thought he would, tall and handsome with a smile that radiates sunshine. The table is right by them, but they don’t sit. They just stand huddled together by a large fish tank, all talking over each other rapidly about how holy shit it’s really so, so good to see each other again. Because it is. It isn’t bullshit niceties at all. Eddie is over the moon.

The loud sound of a gong being struck echoes around the room, and they all turn. Standing just inside the doorway of the room are Bev, Ben, and Richie.

Bev, gorgeous as always, green eyes sparkling, red hair glowing.

Ben, tall, stacked, and almost unrecognizable from that fat little kid if it weren’t for those eyes and little smile that are the kindest in the world and could only ever belong to him.

Richie, puffing up his cheeks as he points at Ben’s back and then slipping into a wide grin that is in no way portraying any shred of innocence when Ben looks back at him.

Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and his stomach burns with forgotten desire. He takes in everything. Leather jacket pulled over Richie’s broad shoulders, big hands stuffed into the pockets. Hair in rumpled waves that Eddie intimately knows means he hasn’t washed it in a couple of days. Perpetual stubble and a strong, square jaw. Eyes big under thick lenses.

“You’ll grow into your looks,” he remembers Bev saying once way back when they were kids, and he remembers just what a goober Richie had looked like. Eyes huge and dark, even without the coke bottle glasses. Buck teeth and thick, rumpled hair that had never once looked tamed. Pale skin that only ever pinkened in the sun. All sharp elbows and knees.

Yeah, Richie has grown into his looks, but Eddie had been just as fascinated by that little tornado of horrible printed shirts draped over a scrawny, lanky frame that he suddenly remembers with a burning sort of clarity. He feels like he can see both versions of Richie at the same time, one so small, one big and broad, both loud as fuck, always moving, demanding to be seen and heard.

God, how Eddie used to want. How he still wants.

They end up sitting next to each other at the table, an empty chair between them that feels like a wall. It’s just empty space. Eddie could reach across it and touch Richie if he wanted to. He does want to, but he keeps his hand to himself, gripping tight around his wine glass to cut off any further temptation. He watches Richie take the first round of shots without using his hands, dropping the glass onto the table directly from his mouth. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Eddie tries very hard to not think of all the times he’s seen that happen very up close and personal.

Like, say, all the times he’s watched Richie swallow after Eddie came in his mouth.

When Bill asks if Richie ever got married, the entire table erupts, Bev the loudest, declaring that there is no way in hell.

“I got married,” Richie protests, and Eddie’s blood runs cold. He looks immediately at Richie’s hand for a ring. There isn’t one, but that doesn’t mean anything. The ring on Eddie’s own hand burns like it hasn’t in months.

“No,” Bev says, shaking her head. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“Yes, I did,” Richie insists, looking around the table earnestly. His eyes land on Eddie. “You didn’t hear about this?”

Eddie’s grip on the glass tightens, his knuckles white, and his stomach churns with unfair jealousy. Richie got married? Married? It’s been months since they broke their affair off, but those months have been enough for Richie to find someone and settle down? Some mysterious someone who now has Richie in all the ways Eddie wanted, who gets to come home to him every day, to a home shared together, no hiding, no secrets, just together and happy and everything Eddie doesn’t have because he’s so fucking stupid.

“No,” Eddie says, attempting for nonchalant but probably falling somewhere around bitter as he speaks through his teeth. “Why would I?”

“You don’t know,” Richie asks again more insistently, driving the knife deeper into Eddie’s heart. He’s already wound too tight, already too close to snapping, but then Richie saves him from making a scene when he says, “Yeah, your mom and I are very happy together.”

Bill chokes on his beer, Bev shrieks, Ben tries and fails to hide his laughter, and Mike looks incredibly fond and pleased. Richie sits there grinning at Eddie smug and proud, and Eddie has never been more relieved to hear a joke about Richie fucking his mother. The knot of jealousy unwinds, and Eddie falls into the old pattern with Richie. “That’s not funny. That’s so not funny,” he says and then throws chopsticks at Richie when he does a spot on Jabba the Hutt impression.

Food comes, along with more drinks, and Eddie completely forgets the anxiety, lets go of the jealousy, puts his simmering desire and yearning on the back burner, and falls into the jokes, the nostalgia, the warm embrace of the Losers Club reunited after twenty-seven years as if those long years had never happened. He eats and drinks and laughs like he hasn’t since he was a kid.

Then the fortune cookies start to shake and crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ myself: please let them talk about their feelings, op


	8. Chapter 8

The decision to stay in town and fight the clown is fucking insane. It is balls to the wall, certifiable. Eddie throws back a glass of whiskey. It’s never been much his drink of choice, and it burns terribly going down. Eddie watches as Bev passes Richie a cigarette, which he takes and lights with shaking hands. The look they exchange—Eddie’s stomach rolls uncomfortably. What Bev had said about the way they all won’t survive leaving here, the way she had looked at Richie when she said it, Eddie wants to be sick. He wants to ask, because if he asks, maybe he can do something about it—in some fucking opposite world where he has a spine. But it’s the fucking clown. Knowing the details of Richie’s grisly demise might be worse than whatever horrible things he is definitely going to stay up all night imagining.

Bill settles into the seat next to Eddie and accepts the bottle of whiskey when Eddie nudges it towards him. “You ok,” Bill asks after he pours himself a drink.

“No, Bill, I am fucking not,” Eddie says, and Bill nods. “Are you?”

“D-drugs are worn off, so yeah, ok as I c-can b-be,” Bill answers.

“Did Mike really fucking drug you,” Eddie asks. Bill nods. “He drugged you, and you still agree with him on this whole batshit idea?”

“We have t-to do s-someth-thing,” Bill says. “It h-has to be us.” Bill looks at him with those too serious eyes. Bill had always been a serious kid, but losing Georgie had matured him even faster, made him even more responsible. His eyes right now are as serious as Eddie has ever seen them, and it’s Bill, so of course Eddie has to agree.

“Sucks though,” Eddie says, pouring himself another glass.

“No shit,” Bill says and elbows Eddie’s arm. They sit in silence for a few moments before Bill asks, “Wh-what’s up with you and R-Richie?”

Eddie tenses up. “Nothing,” he says unconvincingly. “Why?”

Bill arches a brow. “You’ve been staring at him a lot all n-night. M-m-more than you did when we were kids.”

“I didn’t stare at Richie,” Eddie argues, and Bill snorts a disbelieving sort of laughter. “I didn’t!”

“Ok,” Bill says, holding up his hands in surrender. “But you h-have been t-tonight.”

Eddie cracks the knuckles of his ring finger and then hurriedly unfolds his hand when he catches his pointed fidgeting. He wants to take the ring off, just drop it on the floor and never pick it up again. He doesn’t want it anywhere near Richie. “Do we have to get into it,” Eddie asks lowly.

“No,” Bill says and leans a bit closer to him. “But you kn-know I’m h-here.”

Eddie closes the distance between them, pressing their shoulders together. “Yeah,” he says, and he knows how much they both mean what they say. If Eddie could bring himself to talk, it would be to Bill, and Bill would be there for him like he always had been when they were kids. Bill would listen, probably be disappointed in how Eddie has handled everything, but he would still be ready to help Eddie fix it in whatever ways it could be fixed. And he’d be there again during any further fallout.

Mike wants to leave. He’s been waiting over twenty years for this and is clearly chomping at the bit to get it done. But Bill, always the responsible one, reminds him that the rest of them have been thrown for a loop here, that they’ve traveled from all over the country. They need some rest.

No one leaves right away. Eddie tries hard not to watch where Richie and Bev sit with their foreheads practically touching, cigarette smoke swirling between them. He tries not to count every shaking sip of whiskey Richie throws back. He reminds himself that it means nothing when Bev wraps her fingers around Richie’s wrist and squeezes and he seems to relax just a bit. Eddie sees Ben watching too. Richie and Bev had just been like this as kids. Eddie remembers her once calling Richie the worst white knight she could have ever imagined for herself, voice overflowing with affection, and Richie beamed like no one had ever paid him a higher compliment. His Ringwald, Richie used to call her.

His.

Eddie always hated that Richie had never called Eddie his anything. Eds. Spaghetti. Fuck, Richie even blatantly called Eddie cute, but never was Eddie his. But Bev was his Ringwald. Stan the Man, his best friend. Big Bill, his—all of theirs, really—undisputed hero. And Eddie was just—

It’s a stupid thing to think about now. A dumb thing to be jealous of in light of everything else going on. But Eddie always had been jealous as a kid. Jealous anytime someone else had Richie’s attention. He’d craved it, needed it like air, demanded to have it, even as loudly as he protested whatever it was that Richie gave back to him. God, he’d been so fucking oblivious back then. A kid, sure, but so fucking oblivious.

And he’s still jealous now, watching Bev sit so close to Richie, able to so openly touch him while it means nothing near to her what it would mean to Eddie. He is keenly aware how much he brought this particular misery on himself, but it doesn’t matter.

They filter upstairs slowly. Bill goes first, Ben following up only after Bev calls it quits. Eddie doesn’t entirely notice when Mike leaves, but suddenly it’s just him and Richie sitting at the bar. It’s just them, alone for the first time in months, and Eddie yearns. He wants to walk over, to throw himself at Richie, beg to take everything from the last time they saw each other back. It had been a mistake. Eddie knows what a horrible mistake it was. He has the chance to say something about it now. Not really do anything, because fuck, they’re supposed to be fighting a killer alien clown tomorrow and Eddie does not have high hopes of survival, but he could at least nut up enough to say the right thing for once in his life.

“So, it’s really weird us being in a hotel and fully clothed, right,” Richie asks so suddenly that Eddie jumps. Then he has a second to process what Richie just said, and Eddie bursts into hysterical laughter.

“What the fuck, Trashmouth,” Eddie gasps, tears pouring from his eyes and his sides already beginning to burn. Richie grins at him from across the bar, a bit wet and wobbly, and Eddie almost feels something like forgiveness there. Not anything he deserves, but he’ll take whatever Richie wants to give him. “You fucking dipshit. That was bad.”

“You said let’s take our shirts off and kiss as you were challenging me to an arm wrestling contest at dinner in front of our friends,” Richie accuses, but he’s smiling. “That was a thing you did.”

“We’re going to die tomorrow,” Eddie says. “Please let me live for the limited time I have left.”

“No, but I feel like I should get an explanation,” Richie presses, scooting his chair closer to Eddie, still grinning.

“I don’t have one,” Eddie says, dropping his face into his hands. “That was so bad. I know. I’m aware. You don’t have to rub it in, and before you even try it, don’t turn that into a joke. I’m mad at you.”

“Moi?” Richie asks, mockingly affronted like he knows exactly what Eddie’s going to say next. And he’s right.

“You called my mom a Hutt,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs.

“I cannot believe how good that got all of you,” Richie says. “It was coming at you like a fucking freight train, and I still got you. But let it be known, for the record, I am shocked and hurt and offended that no one thinks I could ever get married.”

“Could you,” Eddie asks, and it’s the wrong thing to say to keep this lighthearted ribbing going. The looser set of Richie’s shoulders tightens up again, his spine curving as he hunches down. Eddie hates when Richie does this. Making himself smaller. It would never have occurred to Richie as a kid, but Eddie saw it all too often during the course of their affair. He never asked why Richie does it. It can’t be that Richie is so uncomfortable in his own body. Eddie has seen him on stage, seen him take full advantage of his stupid long limbs and size, fully exploiting his dumb rubber body and face to push his jokes as far as physically possible.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much point in worrying about it now,” Richie says, eyes locked onto his glass. His knuckles have gone white in a tight grip.

“Rich, fuck,” Eddie starts. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—fuck. Fuck, I didn’t mean to throw that at you. God, this is—ugh, you know.”

“Real articulate there, Eds. Am I correct in remembering that you almost flunked freshman English,” Richie asks.

“I passed because you started taking out my homework and fixing it before class,” Eddie recalls. He rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Richie,” he says. “For everything. I don’t know if it matters anymore, but I am.”

Richie nods, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. His eyes are raw and open, and Eddie wants to take away all the pain he sees there. He knows he could open his arms and Richie would fall into him again. Temporarily it would help, but in the long run it would be so painful. Selfishly Eddie thinks all they have is the temporary.

“I miss you,” Eddie says and hates himself for putting tears into Richie’s eyes yet again. His chest hurts seeing it in a way that makes him itch for his inhaler.

Richie shakes his head. “Eds,” he says, broken, and Eddie holds himself back from getting up and giving in. He’s done enough to Richie. He’s hurt him enough. He’s been so cruel, and Richie hasn’t deserved any of it. If this is the end, which Eddie knows it is, he can’t do this anymore. He can’t let this be the last thing he does to Richie. As much as he wants him, as much as he misses him, Eddie can’t take this time.

The remains of his whiskey are mere drops, but Eddie chases them down and pushes his glass across the bar. “It’s late,” he says. He has absolutely no idea what time it is. “We’ve got a fucking shit day tomorrow. We should—I’m going up. Don’t stay down too long, ok, Rich? Get some rest. If you need anything—“ Eddie grimaces, and Richie’s face tightens in response. No, Eddie thinks. No, he can’t even offer that much. It’s too close to asking, too easy to read as an offer he has no right to give.

Eddie slips down from his chair, muttering a quick good-night and making a hurried retreat up the stairs. Briefly, dumbly, he thinks of bursting into Bill’s room and asking him to punch him in the face. It would be a welcome distraction and so much less painful than leaving Richie like that, walking away from him again.

Eddie shuts his door behind him, leaning back against it. His head thumps against the wood. It hurts dully, so he lifts up and drops it again a little harder. He’s an idiot, a selfish, cowardly idiot. Richie means everything in the world to him, and all Eddie can do is fuck it all up at every turn.

The sudden rapping at the door sends a jolt down Eddie’s spine, and he only stands frozen for a second before whirling around and wrenching the door open. Richie is standing there, hair in disarray, eyes red. “Eds,” he says, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Richie’s shirt, pulling him into the room and wrapping him up tight in his arms. The door shuts behind them, and Richie, his face buried into Eddie’s neck, wobbles, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I need—Eddie, I need—“

Eddie is weak.

He pulls back, taking Richie’s face in his hands and bringing him in for a searing kiss. Richie sobs into Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie swallows the sound down. “I’ve got you, baby,” he says against Richie’s lips, and Richie’s warm, familiar heat melts into Eddie so perfectly. He doesn’t deserve this, but Richie shakes in his arms, and Eddie has to give whatever Richie needs to him. If part of it is selfish, then it’s selfish, but he can’t turn Richie away, not like this. He has to take care of him.

He guides Richie back towards the bed, pushing off his jacket and fingers working at the buttons of Richie’s shirt. His hands roam, touching all he can, reacquainting himself with the perfect feeling of Richie’s skin against his. He isn’t prepared for this at all. They don’t have lube or condoms, but Eddie moves as slow and gentle, opening Richie the best he can, keeping a tight hold of him, lips never roaming too far away. Richie tastes like salt through his tears, and Eddie wants to break down too. He wants to sob and rail at the fucked up situation they’ve been thrown into. He wants to cry and scream at how much it all hurts, how unfair it all is, but Richie needs him right now, so Eddie chokes down his own tears and gives Richie everything he can.

He pushes in slowly and is nearly overwhelmed at the feeling of Richie around him with nothing to separate them at all. Hot and tight and perfect and where Eddie wishes he could spend the rest of his life. He rolls his hips, slow, almost painfully slow, and Richie’s long limbs wrap tight around him, holding Eddie in like he wishes he could open his chest and absorb him. It’s all Eddie has wanted since the first time he held Richie in his arms.

Eddie slips a hand between them, wrapping around Richie’s cock and stroking to bring him to climax with him. It’s a wet, disgusting mess that Eddie has missed with a burning ache, and using his clean hand, he wipes away sweat from Richie’s forehead, wipes away tears that immediately replace themselves.

Richie comes pliantly into Eddie’s arms as he rolls them over, tugging the sheets up around them. He holds tight, pressing kisses into Richie’s hair. “I’ve got you, Richie,” he says lowly. “I’ve got you. Whatever you need.” Richie’s arms around him, Eddie feels safer and greedy and hurt and whole.

He manages to doze off a little in the night, and when he wakes up to someone knocking on his door, saying it’s time to go, Richie is gone.

``

Splitting up is a bad idea. God, it’s such a bad idea. This is a horror movie, and splitting up is how everyone dies. They part ways at the edge of the Barrens, and Eddie stands in the line of the trees for a moment, watching Richie’s back. His shoulders are hunched up around his ears, and they haven’t really spoken much since last night.

Eddie isn’t entirely sure how he feels about waking up alone this morning. He’s not mad, not really upset. Maybe a bit disappointed, but he understands entirely. He knows he probably shouldn’t have given in, but he can never actually regret any time spent with Richie, and Richie had needed him. In the end, Eddie is helpless in the face of that.

Eddie watches until Richie disappears down a street, and then he begins walking. He doesn’t have a real destination in mind. He doesn’t even know what he should be looking for. This whole fucking thing is nuts. He has no idea what he’s supposed to find.

Eddie hasn’t been to Derry since he graduated high school, when he and his mother moved to New York. He hasn’t even thought about this place other than some very vague notions while he was with Richie during those months. It’s amazing how little has changed. He saw a shop or two on the way into town that look to have gone out of business, but almost everything is straight out of Eddie’s steadily clearing memories.

As he walks, Eddie turns the little rubber ball over in his pocket. It’s not his token. He has no fucking clue what that’s going to be—some physical representation of childhood trauma so they can appropriate a Native American ritual, God, what the actual fuck—but the touch is comforting. It, plus the shower cap in his other pocket, makes him think of Stan, who was always such a calm presence. Even that summer when he was terrified, Stan had still always felt so steady and rational. Eddie needs some of that right now.

He’s been wandering for nearly an hour before Eddie realizes he has found his way to his old neighborhood. And now that he’s here, he heads with a little more purpose towards his old house.

It looks disturbingly the same.

It feels so wrong that it should. Derry being nearly frozen in time, there’s something that makes perfect sense about that, but it’s jarring to see his house exactly as it was the day they moved away. He almost expects his mother to open the door, rushing to usher him inside, her voice too sweet as she tells him to come in where it’s safe.

That house had never been safe for him. It was a prison. It was where his mother wanted to keep him locked away forever like a china doll, where she convinced him that he was too delicate and fragile for the outside world. Everything out there was dangerous. Inside, alone with her, that was the only thing he could count on, the only way to be safe from the dirt and disease and death.

And Eddie remembers with a sudden, burning clarity that he isn’t fragile. He might be terrified, but even with a broken arm he still climbed down into Its liar to save Bev. His mother told him that he had allergies, but he’d never reacted to anything other than bug bites, and just like any other kid would. She said he had asthma and couldn’t run, but fuck, he had been the fastest of them. When he ran, he would run longer, farther, faster than any of the others. He never needed the inhaler when he ran. Because the inhaler was fake. It was fucking fake, just like all the other medications she told him he needed.

Christ, he ran track in high school. He runs now, the inhaler always with him, but he’s never needed it.

He has never needed it, not once. He still has it, just continuously renews the prescription without thought and has been for the past twenty years. And everything else, all the other medicines he takes now, God, he doesn’t even know what’s real and what’s just left over from his mother’s lies.

Eddie feels sick in a way entirely different than he’s ever felt before, except in that moment when Greta Keene told him that all his medicines were placebos. He feels sick and so fucking angry. How could his mother do this to him? How could she lie like that? He knows. He knows why. His father’s death had destroyed his mother. The memories are fuzzy because he was so young, but he remembers when his father was still alive, when his mother was calmer, when the three of them were happy. She lost her husband and was terrified of losing her son, but what she had done to him—

Eddie turns sharply on his heel. He has to walk away. He can’t stand to look at the house for another second. If he does, he’ll start causing property damage. A horrible, guilty sort of delight roars in his chest at the thought that Sonia is dead, has been for nearly ten years. She’s dead, and she is never going to have this hold over him again.

Eddie pulls out his phone and dials his doctor’s office. The address for Keene’s Pharmacy spills from his lips, and he places the last order for an inhaler that he is ever going to in his life.

``

Eddie sits in a bizarre haze as Beverly and Ben clean up the stab wound through his cheek. He should go to the hospital. He was just stabbed clear through his cheek. How is he not loudly protesting sitting on the dusty floor while two absolutely inexperienced people attempt to patch him up?

Maybe it has a little bit to do with the fact that he also pulled the knife from his own face and proceeded to stab his childhood bully in the chest not half an hour after a monster leper threw up all over him, and is clearly reeling from the shock of it all, but who’s to say?

“I think that’s good,” Bev says with a pronounced wince. She taps at the tape, pressing it gently into his skin.

Ben stands over them, face drawn and a bit pale. “How the fuck is Bowers here,” he mutters. “Jesus.” His hand tugs at his shirt, right over the H carved into his skin. Eddie shudders. How many times is that fucking maniac going to stick a blade into them all? Bev reaches up and grasps Ben’s hand, pulling it away from the scar and squeezing tightly. Ben squeezes back. “Well,” he says, voice shaky, “thank God it was just—it could have been—“ He trails off, and Eddie nods at him. “You’re ok?” Eddie nods again. “Yeah, you’re ok and—“

Ben stops suddenly, eyes blowing wide. Bev starts to ask, but Ben yells, “Richie,” and turns to bolt down the hall.

“Oh God,” Bev cries, scrambling up after him. Eddie sits frozen for a moment. Richie? Richie is back? And he didn’t come out hearing all the noise and screaming? “Richie,” he hears her yelling from the other room, voice high with panic. “Richie!”

Ice coils in Eddie’s gut, claws digging into his heart, mind whirling too fast to properly panic about how Bowers was here ready to kill them all and Richie has been here alone, unprotected. Eddie fumbles for his pocket, struggling to pull out his bag from the pharmacy. He rips clumsily at the paper, hands shaking violently as he grabs at the inhaler. This isn’t asthma. He knows it isn’t asthma. The inhaler isn’t even prepped, but his lungs feel like they’re shriveling up, closing tight. He can’t breathe.

Eddie braces himself, ready to hear Bev scream again, dreading what will be the worst sound he’s ever heard in his life, the signal that Richie is—

“He’s not here,” Ben says, bursting back into the room. “His car is gone.”

“Fuck!” Eddie wilts, collapsing back against the wall. Ben drops by him, hands curling into the fabric of the jacket around Eddie’s shoulders.

“He’s not here,” Ben says again. “He’s—he’s ok. He’s ok.” Eddie curls in on himself, shaking, and Ben wraps him up in a tight hug. A moment later Beverly falls over them both. “He’s ok,” Ben repeats for them all, keeps saying it to cement it into reality.

It takes a long moment for the adrenaline to wear off, and it leaves Eddie feeling tired down to his bones. But they aren’t done. They are nowhere near done. They need to get to the library, get eyes on all the others. Eddie needs to see Richie. He also desperately needs to shower and change out of his ruined clothes. The washing machine will never be enough to salvage these. They’ll just have to be burned.

Ben, perfect Ben, understands without Eddie having to say anything, and grabs up a change of clothes from Eddie’s suitcase before ushering both Eddie and Bev into his room. He motions for Bev to sit wherever she pleases and then stands guard in the doorway to the bathroom while Eddie showers and changes. They redo his bandage and pile into Ben’s car. Eddie is too shaken to even think of protesting the choice of car and driver. He sits in the back, phone gripped tight in his hand as he stares at the text he just sent off to Richie.

He jumps when his phone starts to ring, and, of course, he thinks, he should have called not texted; it would be preferable to actually hear Richie’s voice if he can’t have immediate eyes on him, but it’s not Richie who’s calling. It’s Myra.

Eddie stares at the phone as it buzzes in his hand. Stares at the picture of them taken at some neighborhood function a few years ago. Fake, stiff smiles. His arm around her shoulders that he had dropped immediately after the photo was taken. Surrounded by people he could not have cared less about.

The screen goes dark, and the notification for the missed call takes its place among the dozen others Eddie hasn’t answered. A moment later the voicemail notification comes along too. Eddie thumbs it away, pulling up Richie’s text thread again. No response.

And considering that when they walk into the library, Richie is standing over Mike, who is bleeding on the floor, and Bowers, who has an axe sticking out from the back of his head, Eddie thinks that’s all a pretty good excuse for not checking your phone.

Richie cracks a truly terrible joke and then immediately throws up. Ben and Bev race forward, Bev pulling Richie away from the puddle of puke and hugging him tightly. Ben shoves at Bowers’s body and pulls Mike away from the blood. Bev runs off to find a first aid kit, and Eddie pulls in several deep breaths.

Jesus fucking Christ, this day.

He looks at Richie, takes in the gray tone of Richie’s skin, the sweat curling the hair around his face, his eyes impossibly wide under his glasses. “Richie,” Eddie says, rushing over. “Richie, hey, hey, man, you need to sit down, ok? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Richie’s face goes through a gauntlet of emotions in rapid succession, and Eddie realizes what’s about to happen just in time. He grabs a trash can and shoves it right under Richie’s face as he throws up again. The smell is horrible, but Eddie sits by him, holding the trash can steady and rubbing a hand up and down Richie’s back until he finally pulls away, blinking rapidly against his watering eyes.

Eddie winces at the mess left in the trash can. “I’ll be right back,” he says, but he isn’t entirely sure Richie really hears him. Eddie hurries up to Mike’s loft. He rummages through the cabinets until he finds a loaf of bread. He brings it back to Richie along with a glass of water. Richie recoils at the sight, but Eddie says, “That was all bile, Rich. You need to put something back into your stomach. Bread should be ok. We’ll just take it slow.”

Eddie tears off small pieces that Richie robotically accepts with absolute silence. There’s no further fight. There isn’t a single muttered comment at Dr. K, and Eddie hates that. He hates sitting there watching Richie stare off into the distance, deeply settled into shock, chewing automatically just because Eddie keeps telling him to.

Finishing the first slice of bread is slow going, but eventually Richie gets there, and Eddie gives him the second piece to go at his own pace. Richie finally looks up at him and jerks violently, his knee knocking into the glass of water and spilling it. “Fuck, Richie,” Eddie barks, starting to back away, but Richie grabs him, wide eyes zeroed in on the gauze taped to Eddie’s cheek.

“What—“ Richie croaks.

“Oh,” Eddie says, settling back down by him. “Yeah, that was—Bowers got me too. Ambushed me in my bathroom. There’s no joke there for you. I was literally just washing my face, and he stabbed me. I stabbed him back, but I guess that doesn’t take as well as a tomahawk to the skull. But at least now Ben, Mike, and I can all get matching jackets for our shitty new club.”

It’s not the best thing to say, clearly, because Richie immediately bursts into hysterical laughter that turns into hysterical tears. “Oh, fuck,” Eddie says, pulling Richie to him. “Fuck, no, it’s ok, sweetheart. It’s ok. I’m ok. Mike’s ok. You—you saved him. Bowers was coming for all of us, and you stopped him.”

Richie clings to him, sobbing into the crook of his neck. Eddie rocks him slowly. “You’re ok,” he says. “We’re all ok.”

Then the others are there. Bev drapes herself over Richie’s back and repeats everything Eddie says. Ben holds them both, and Mike settles himself around Eddie, leaning his head against Eddie’s, careful of the bandage. Eddie relaxes back into him, getting as much contact as he can without taking his arms away from Richie.

Like in the hotel, they just sit together for a long moment, all just relieved to still be together and alive.

When Richie finally pulls his face out of Eddie’s shoulder, Mike reaches out, his hand falling on his knee and squeezing. “Thanks, Trashmouth,” he says. Then his eyes widen. “Oh, wait, hang on.”

He hurries up and over to the front desk, digging loudly through the drawers. He comes back with something small clutched in his fist. “Thanks,” he says again, uncurling his fingers to reveal a roll of candies, “for being a LifeSaver.”

“No, oh my God,” Ben cries.

“Boo,” Bev yells, holding both thumbs down.

“He should have let Bowers kill you,” Eddie says dryly.

Richie snatches at the roll of candy with a maniacal sort of glee. “How dare you come into my house which is actually your house which is actually municipal property and try to take over my gig,” he says, but he’s smiling, and that’s all Eddie cares about.

“Call it revenge for you not calling me once in the past twenty-five years,” Mike says, pushing Eddie gently aside to hug him.

They dispose of Bowers’s body in the laziest way possible. Ben and Mike just drag him out back and throw him in the dumpster while Bev, Eddie, and Richie wipe up the puddle of blood. Eddie’s mind races with every true crime show he’s ever seen, which he’ll probably never be able to watch again after all this. There’s no way they aren’t leaving behind so much evidence. Absolutely unwelcome in his mind, he suddenly thinks of an old SNL sketch of Richie’s, and he can’t help the choked laughter than bubbles up in his throat.

“What,” Richie asks immediately.

“Keith Morrison,” Eddie says, and Richie grins. It’s shaky, but he grins and launches into the impression, humming and hawing.

Bev looks up sharply. “Never make that noise in front of me again,” she says, but she’s grinning too.

The sky has gone dark when Bill finally calls. They hover around Mike, listening as he desperately tries to get Bill to meet them at the library. But Bill is clearly in one of his hero-complex moods. He thinks this is all his fault and that he needs to do it alone.

They jump into Mike’s truck and speed off for Neibolt, catching Bill just as he steps onto the front lawn. He wants to do it alone, but they won’t let him. They can’t let him. Losers stick together.

``

Eddie follows after Richie through the grey water, his hands held up above his head. He isn’t sure which part of this makes him more sick, the disgusting water itself, the fact that they’re moving closer and closer to the clown, or that he froze up when Stan’s head attacked Richie.

God, what would have happened if Ben hadn’t gotten there with the knife? Richie could have been hurt worse. He could be dead. A fresh wave of absolute horror rolls over Eddie. He remembers last night, the way Bev had pointed at Richie when she talked about how they wouldn’t live long if they left Derry. Whatever was supposed to happen to Richie, would that have been worse than Eddie letting a fucking spider head wearing his best friend’s face eat Richie alive?

He can’t believe that’s even a thought that passes through his mind. He hates this so much. He thinks Stan must have somehow remembered more than them. No wonder he did what he did. If Eddie had properly remembered—

Some lump of something floats up to him, and he whimpers out, “No, no, no, no.” It’s hell down here. It’s his worst nightmare. It’s pants-shittingly terrifying to wade into the cistern where they had last fought It off. It’s flooded, only the top of Pennywise’s caravan cart sticking up out of the water. They climb up, and some horrific, shriveled old woman rears up out of the water to drag Beverly down.

Again, Eddie freezes. He sits stone still against the caravan, the light from his headlamp shining onto the ripples where everyone else just dives in after Bev without a second’s hesitation. Bubbles of air pop up against the surface, and everything goes still.

“Guys,” Eddie calls, as if they could actually hear him from under the water. He can’t see them, which means they probably can’t see anything either. How are they going to help Bev? How can they help themselves if something else is lurking under there? “Guys, please,” Eddie cries, his voice echoing in the cavern.

God, it can’t happen like this. They can’t all drown down there and leave him alone. He can’t move. He can’t move to escape. He can’t move forward. He can’t move to help. He can’t do any of this.

Eddie bursts into wild sobs when his friends finally break the surface of the water. They’re all there, coughing and sputtering, but there and alive. They climb up to the absolute minimal safety of the top of the caravan, and Mike pulls open a latch, revealing a vertical tunnel that goes too far and too deep to see the bottom.

Mike and Bill head down without a thought, but Eddie can’t. His chest heaves, and Beverly hovers over the entrance when Eddie bursts, “I can’t do this. I can’t. I—fuck, fuck!”

“Eddie, hey,” Richie starts, stepping up to him.

Eddie pushes his hand away. “You saw! I froze! I was—shit, I was gonna let you—I was gonna let you die.” He can’t get air into his lungs. His throat is closing. His chest might burst.

Eddie fumbles for his inhaler, and Richie pounces. “No,” Richie yells, trying to snatch it. Eddie wrestles back, desperate to get the medicine into his lungs. It’s bullshit, he knows with horrible certainty, but he needs the inhaler just to survive this moment.

Richie shines his flashlight in Eddie’s eyes, finally getting a decent hold on Eddie’s hand. He pulls until he gets the little bit of plastic from Eddie’s grasp. “Hey,” he snaps, right in Eddie’s space. “Hey, listen to me. You don’t need this shit. Who killed a psycho clown before he turned fourteen?”

The question, so fucking weird and patently untrue considering where they are and what they’re doing, startles Eddie silent and still. “Me,” he says in a questioning tone when Richie just stares at him expectantly.

“That’s right,” Richie says. “Who stabbed the local stereotypical eighties bully with a knife he pulled out of his own face?”

Eddie blinks, but the answer, “Me,” comes out a little stronger this time.

“Who married a woman twice his size?”

“Asshole,” Eddie says. He is perfectly average sized, and unless Richie’s been stalking Eddie’s limited social media, he has no idea what Myra even looks like. Richie just arches his brows. “Fine, me.”

Eddie isn’t expecting it, so he doesn’t know what to think when Richie’s expression goes almost impossibly soft. Eddie’s stomach twists in a way so incredibly different from the way it has been since the fortune cookies. It’s warm and makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart hammer against his ribs loud enough that Richie has to be able to hear it. It’s a familiar feeling, something deep inside Eddie that has only ever belonged to Richie.

“You’re braver than you think,” Richie says, his voice a soft caress. There isn’t a trace of teasing or condescension in Richie’s voice. He’s as serious and sincere as Eddie has ever seen, and Eddie believes him.

It isn’t the time, and it isn’t the place, but all Eddie wants to do in that moment is pull Richie into his arms. He wants to kiss him, beg his forgiveness, promise him all the things that he should have a long time ago. He wants to tell Richie what he’s refused to believe since he remembered the clown. He wants to tell Richie that they will all make it out of here. They’ll kill It once and for all, and the first thing Eddie will do when he gets cell service back is call Myra and tell her that he’s filing for divorce.

He opens his mouth. What’s actually going to come out, he doesn’t know, but Richie moves first. His eyes widen in a sort of panic, as if he can tell something too big is about to happen, and he can’t handle it. He reaches up and pats at Eddie’s cheek, the injured one. Even as he yelps through the spark of pain, Eddie recognizes that Richie’s moving on autopilot, doing just anything that will break the moment that has them both too close to saying something they’ll never be able to take back. Eddie, gut coiling in shame, lets him. “Sorry,” Richie mutters, stepping back and over towards the tunnel, reaching to help Bev start climbing down.

Before she goes, Beverly hands Eddie the fence post she brought from outside. “Take it,” she says. “It kills monsters.”

Eddie’s fingers curl around the rusted metal. “Does it,” he asks, almost laughing at the absurdity.

“If you believe it does,” Bev says, and her tone is almost like what Richie’s was. It’s missing some of the depth that was there specifically from Richie for Eddie, but the sureness is just as strong. Eddie keeps his grip on the post tight as they descend into a literal hell.

He and Richie lose the others when Pennywise the giant fucking alien spider clown—why is spiders the theme of the day?—attacks. Eddie is scared so shitless he doesn’t have any room in him to be mad at Mike about this latest lie. He and Richie bolt down a tunnel, clinging to each other’s hands.

They hit a dead end. There are three doors in the wall, rotten and cracked, words written in blood. Very Scary. Scary. Not Scary At All. He doesn’t even think how obvious it is until Richie lunges after him. “Wait, wait,” Richie cries. “No, It’s—It’s—“ He eyes the doors with something like recognition. “It’s fucking with us. It’s opposite.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder where Pennywise’s weird arm is still grasping around looking for them. “So, Very Scary,” he asks warily.

Richie nods tensely. “Yeah.”

They stand there for a long second until Eddie nudges Richie towards the door. Richie pulls in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He moves to the door, reaching slowly for the handle. He opens it. It’s dark inside, only enough light for them to see a string hanging down from the ceiling. Richie pulls it.

A dim light turns on. The door has opened up into a dark closet. Eddie’s blood runs cold, but Richie goes noticeably rigid, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His breath comes in shallow gasps, and Eddie, his heart in his throat, starts to reach for him, scared to touch because Richie looks like he might shatter. They know what this is. They both know, but as much as it turns Eddie’s life upside down, it’s always been different for Richie. Eddie remembers the bathroom graffiti, the rumors, the way Richie would talk about girls and sex so loudly and crassly it honestly made Eddie want to punch him in the face despite the desperate sort of tone that colored everything Richie said.

This cramped, dark closet. Eddie had never ever realized he’d been in there. Richie had always been too aware. For a moment, all that matters is Richie, and Eddie forgets to be scared of what might be lurking in the darkness.

Then a child’s voice whispers from inside, “Have you seen my shoes?” A body, severed at the waist, emerges from the darkness, tap dancing.

They scream and slam the door shut. Not Scary At All is just as bad with the fucking demon Pomeranian. Eddie keeps Richie’s jacket sleeve in an iron grasp as they run back down the tunnel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, voice high pitched into nearly a screech. “God, what the fuck!”

“I hate this fucking town,” Richie screeches right along with him. “I hate this whole fucking state!”

Over everything, all the chaos, they’ve still been able to hear Pennywise stomping around in the main chamber, cackling and taunting. But suddenly the stomping stops, and Its voice lowers to a grumble. Ice shoots down Eddie’s spine. Richie tenses only for a moment, understanding what Eddie does, that It has one of them in Its grasp, before he tears away from Eddie and sprints down the tunnel. “Richie, no,” Eddie calls after him.

Richie’s head start and long legs put distance between them, even as fast as Eddie runs after him. Eddie bursts out of the tunnel just in time to see Richie frozen in the deadlights, limbs hanging lifelessly as he’s pulled up into the air. Floating far above just like Beverly was.

“No,” Eddie gasps, falling back against the rocky wall. “No, Richie.”

Across the cavern, Bill and Mike scream. Eddie can hear Ben and Beverly too. But he just stands there, frozen in horror as Richie floats stuck in the lights that are strobing and somehow making a horrible sound. He’s stuck up there, and Eddie is frozen on the ground, terrified.

“Not again,” he whimpers to herself. Stupid Richie, that stupid trashmouthed imbecile. Fucking dumb brave idiot. For the second time tonight, It has him in Its grasp, and Eddie is just standing there watching. God, not Richie. Not any of them, but fuck, especially not Richie. Not this idiot who says the grossest, most immature shit, even as a fully grown man, who always seems to delight in making Eddie ridiculously angry, grinning all the while Eddie yells at him. Not this stupid boy with a huge heart, so obviously smart even though they’d always actively refused to give him credit for it, kinder and more loyal and so stubbornly protective of those he considered his. Not this absolute buffoon who makes Eddie’s heart swell up like no one else ever has or ever could again, a gaping hole deep in his soul that he missed even when he didn’t remember to.

His fingers tighten around the fence post. It kills monsters. If you believe it does.

Richie believes in him. Richie thinks Eddie is brave. Not just thinks. He knows. He knows Eddie is brave, that his friends make him brave. Eddie has done this before. He’s taken on this son of a bitch with his bare hands because he would do anything for his friends who he loves with his entire being, so much that he’s in constant danger of bursting from it. And with this post, the monster-killing spear, that piece of shit doesn’t stand a chance.

Eddie runs out into the cavern. “Beep, beep, motherfucker,” he bellows and launches the spear. Somehow, fucking the power of belief, it strikes Pennywise right in Its gaping mouth.

The bright glare of the deadlights fades immediately as the clown screams in pain and falls back, impaled on the crater. Richie falls from the air like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He hits the ground hard and doesn’t move.

Eddie scrambles over. Shit, shit, shit, that fall. It was from probably fifteen feet up. God, please don’t let that have killed him. Not after everything else. Eddie falls over Richie, pulling at his jacket, shaking him. He stops short, chastising himself. Richie has to be hurt in the very least. Fucking shaking him around could only make the damage worse.

“Richie,” Eddie calls, holding Richie’s face in his hands. There’s more blood on him, flowing from his nose. Some of it trails up, floating. “Richie, Richie,” Eddie chants. God, his eyes. They’re open and foggy. Like Bev’s had been.

Eddie looks over his shoulder. Pennywise screeches, writhing against the rocks piercing Its chest. Blood, so much blood, flows up into the air as Its struggles grow weaker and weaker.

“Richie,” Eddie says, turning back to him. “Richie, come on. Come on, wake up. I got It. I got It for real. Richie.”

Richie doesn’t move. The blood still trickles from his nose. His breath is shallow, chest barely rising. Eddie almost can’t feel it despite being right on top of him. Eddie’s eyes sting with tears. This can’t be happening, not after he just turned the clown into a fucking shish kebab. Not when it’s finally ending. Bill’s words from upstairs echo in Eddie’s mind. “Not him too,” he begs to anyone who might be listening. “Not him too, please.”

The memory hits Eddie like a freight train. They hadn’t been able to wake Bev up from the deadlights by talking to her or by shaking her, but she had woken up when Ben kissed her.

True love’s kiss, like a goddamn Disney movie.

And just as suddenly, with just as much force, Eddie finally dares to give a name to the feeling that had been trying to burst from his chest on top of the caravan. He has a name for the impossible perfection of falling asleep with Richie in his arms and waking up to find him drooling on his chest. He has a name for that desperate need and simultaneous inability to hear what Bev saw for Richie in her nightmares. He has a name for that way he felt as a kid, how whenever Richie was too close he was in danger of exploding, that need that would creep up his spine to be in Richie’s space, have Richie’s attention on him. He has a name for that ache in his heart that’s been yearning for something he didn’t even remember he was missing.

Eddie has been in love with Richie since he was twelve years old.

And Richie—Richie loves Eddie too, despite the hurt, despite the choices Eddie made squandering their second chance. But the universe is giving him another shot, and Eddie will take it. He’ll make it work this time. He’s brave enough.

Eddie takes Richie’s face in his hands and kisses him, pouring everything he has into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh wow, this chapter was like pulling teeth getting thru, but I made it. Next chapter will be another Richie POV interlude and hopefully I’ll get that out much faster. At least half of it is written so we’re doing better than usual 😬


	9. Chapter 9

The light sears at his eyes, worse by far than staring into the sun. It dances behind his eyes, making him dizzy and sick and unsure if he’s even part of reality. Richie blinks, trying to clear the spots away. It doesn’t really work. His mind moves so slow, slower than it ever has, and it feels like his ears are full of cotton. His entire body aches, but it’s all somehow distant, like he’s not even in his body at all. Above and beyond.

Floating.

There’s some noise, growing louder and louder. A shape emerges from the blinding sear, dark, just a blob hovering over him. He should be scared. He is scared. He’s terrified, but everything is just so slow, like he’s been dipped in molasses.

The noise—it doesn’t stop. Something hovers heavy above him. His mind tries to catch up. He knows this noise. He knows this shape, the weight of it, exactly how it feels lying on top of him.

“Richie!”

His stomach rushes up, and he’s overwhelmed by the sensation of falling, falling back into his body. He pulls in a gasping breath, air finally able to get back into his lungs. The sear is still in his eyes, three spots swirling, but he knows he’s in the cavern. And the noise, it’s Eddie. It’s Eddie calling his name, Eddie’s weight on top of him, Eddie’s hands on his face.

Richie’s lips tingle. It’s a feeling he knows so well.

“There he is,” Eddie cries in delight. He smiles so huge. How is he smiling right now? He can’t smile here in this dark cavern where horrible things have happened. Will happen. Richie’s mind still moves so slow, but there’s something in him, an urgency, trying so hard to catch up. All he can do is stare up at Eddie. Beautiful Eddie. Brave Eddie. Covered in sewer grime but radiant as the fucking sun. Always the most wonderful thing Richie has ever seen.

Eddie spares a brief glance over his shoulder. “I think I did it, Rich,” he says, turning back. His eyes sparkle in the darkness. Terror rises up in Richie’s chest. His blood turns to ice in his veins.

“I killed It,” Eddie cries. Richie’s soul screams with a desperate urging. Every neuron in his brain is on fire trying to make sense of what he saw in the deadlights. Every alarm bell screeches. Danger. Danger, danger. Move. They have to move.

“I really killed—“ Richie grabs Eddie, pulling him down. Richie’s brain finally clears as it happens.

One of Pennywise’s dagger arms impales Eddie, going in through his back and poking out of his chest. He’s so close to Richie that the claw pierces Richie’s arm too. Blood, hot and sticky, pours from Eddie’s body, soaking into Richie’s clothes.

Vaguely, from far away, Richie can hear screaming, but Eddie’s light gasp in Richie’s ear thunders loud enough to shake his bones. “Richie.” Blood hits Richie’s neck, dripping back into his hair. Richie’s arms tighten around Eddie.

It pulls back, and Richie clings tighter. The force of Its pull throws them both across the floor. Richie curls his body around Eddie’s, trying desperately to hold on and shield him from the hard ground.

Hands fall over them. Richie hears their friends’ voices. They pull, dragging Richie and Eddie to the safety of a tunnel. Only there does Richie finally release his hold on Eddie.

God, there’s so much blood.

Richie doesn’t throw up. Hysterically, he thinks it’s hilarious that this is the moment he finally keeps his limited stomach contents down. He rips off his jacket, pressing it tight to the hole in Eddie’s chest. It’s not enough. It’s a stupid unnecessarily expensive leather jacket, and it doesn’t absorb shit, but it’s all he has.

The others hover around them. Everyone talks over each other, Mike and Bev especially going a mile a minute. Ben’s voice sounds further away. And Bill, he’s at Richie’s side. He pulls at his arm, and Richie yanks away.

“Richie,” Bill starts.

“Shut up,” Richie hisses, eyes on Eddie. His face is screwed up in pain. Sweat mixes with the blood dripping on his face. His eyes stay fixed on Richie.

“Are you ok,” Eddie asks. More blood slips from his mouth, coating his chin like—oh God, like the twisted version from when they were kids, the one who came up out of a mattress in the Neibolt house spewing black bile.

“Oh my God, shut up,” Richie says again.

“Bill, his arm,” Eddie says, eyes still on Richie. His hand grasps at Richie’s holding the jacket to his wound.

“I know,” Bill says, reaching for Richie’s arm again.

“What the fuck,” Richie hollers. “Who the fuck cares!”

Eddie’s voice is far too calm. “Rich, I can see the bone,” he says.

“There’s a fucking hole in your chest,” Richie screeches. “Shut up! Bill, don’t fucking touch me!”

Ben comes back. He’s found a side tunnel, one that will get them closer to the way out. Pennywise attacks wildly at the entrance to this tunnel, screaming for them to come out, come out and play.

“Let’s go,” Richie says. “We have to get Eddie out.” He starts to push himself up. His hands slip. Both are covered in blood. One Eddie’s and the other his.

“Bill,” Eddie says again, his voice soft and tired, and this time Bill, with reinforcements from Bev, hold Richie down long enough to get the sleeve Bill has ripped from his shirt tied around Richie’s arm. It’s really only as they tie off the tourniquet that Richie actually registers the pain. He looks at the wound, and it isn’t pretty. Flesh and muscle have been torn away, and the white of the bone stands out against all the red blood.

But Eddie is worse. Eddie is—Eddie needs to get out. Fuck Pennywise. Fuck killing It. There’s no time. How is this even a discussion still happening around them? But Eddie speaks up again, and they all listen. “I made It small,” he says. “The leper. I choked It, and I was—I was winning. I felt it. It was getting small.”

“The opening,” Bev says.

“All living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit,” Mike says. “We get there. It has to get small to follow us. Then we kill It.”

“Fine,” Richie cries. “Fine, fuck, can we go?” He puts arms around Eddie, trying to pull him up. Eddie can’t support himself at all. He’s little more than deadweight. Richie struggles, and Bill jumps in to help.

In the end, it’s kind of fucked up how they kill It. They just bully It to death. They berate It for all the shit It put them through, scream about how awesome their friends are and how they didn’t deserve any of it, call It names until It shrinks so small and weak that It just lies helpless as Mike pulls Its heart right from Its chest. They crush the heart, and It disappears into dust. Finally, finally, it’s all over.

Richie hurries back to where he left Eddie propped up against a rock. “Eddie, Eds,” Richie says, ducking down and dropping a hand to his shoulder. “Eds, we have to—“

Richie stops short. Eddie’s eyes are closed. Richie shakes him. “Eddie, Eddie!” There’s no response, no movement at all. Richie’s entire body feels like he’s been dipped in a frozen lake. “Eddie,” he tries again. Still nothing. Richie fumbles with Eddie’s neck, trying to find his pulse. He can’t. He isn’t doing it right, that’s all. He just can’t tell through the blood.

“Richie,” someone says over him.

“Help me with him,” Richie says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Robotic. Too calm.

Around them, the cavern rumbles, and the ground begins to shake.

“Richie.”

“We have to get him out,” Richie says. “He needs help walking.”

“Honey.” Bev’s voice. So soft. So gentle. It cuts through Richie like a knife. “Honey, he’s—I think he’s—“

“He’s fine,” Richie snaps. “Bill, get the fuck over here and help me.”

“Rich,” Bill says, his hand sliding over Richie’s arm, trying to pull him away. “Rich, we have to—“

Richie lashes out at him. It’s with his bad arm. All it does is hurt, but fuck, who the fuck cares, because Eddie needs help. Eddie needs to get out now so they can get him to the hospital.

A thunderous crash echoes around the cavern. Rocks fall from high up on the walls. “Richie, we have to go. We c-can’t—I don’t think we can get him out,” Bill says.

Hands pull at Richie, trying to break his grasp on Eddie. They want to go. They want to go without Eddie. They want to leave him here alone in the dark. Eddie is scared of the dark. He can’t stay down here, and Richie can’t be where Eddie isn’t.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Richie screeches, pulling Eddie closer, tucking him under his chin. Over everything, Richie hears it, Eddie letting out a little groan, and Richie’s entire world zeros in on the sound. He’s alive. He’s still alive, and Richie has to get him out. That’s the only thing he can do. If he can’t get Eddie out, then he isn’t getting out either. He won’t leave Eddie alone here.

Bill has the tightest grasp on him. He’s right there, his face nearly in Richie’s. “Bill,” Richie cries. “Bill, please, please. I can’t—“ Bill is the only other founding member of the Losers Club still standing. The three of them—and Stan, God, Stanley—they’ve been friends since before any of them can properly remember. Bill has to understand that this is something Richie can’t do. “Bill, please.”

And Bill sees it. His eyes are a storm, weighing what they’re still up against, what has already happened, what they’ve already lost. He knows even if they get Richie off Eddie, Richie will fight every step of the way. If they try to take Richie without Eddie, they’ll all die because Richie will not just go along with them, and if by some miracle they survive, Richie won’t last much longer. Save them both or lose them both. Those are the only options. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, fuck, Mike! Mike, help me!”

Bill pulls one of Eddie’s arms over his shoulder, and Mike takes the other. They lift Eddie up, and Richie’s legs, pain shooting up in needles, give out as he sobs in relief. Bev and Ben grab him too, hoisting him up and pulling him along, keeping him with the group as he stumbles and trips over everything and nothing.

They barely make it out. Getting up the tunnels is almost impossible. They run as fast as they can. The roof gives out as they leap from the porch into the daylight. The house collapses with a roar as the ground opens up and swallows everything.

Mike all but throws Eddie fully into Bill’s grasp and sprints for his truck. Ben follows, and Bev pulls Richie with her. “Bill has him,” Bev yells, dragging Richie towards the truck and away from Bill and Eddie.

The truck engine roars to life. Ben practically rips the tailgate down and jumps up to grab Eddie from Bill. Bev and Bill then push Richie up into the bed. Bill gets in after him, pulling the tailgate closed. Beverly rushes into the front by Mike. She hasn’t shut the door fully behind her when Mike tears off down the street.

They fly wildly around in the back, Bill helping Richie scramble over to where Ben holds on tight to Eddie. Ben lets Richie take over, pulling off his own button up to hold against Eddie’s wound. Richie holds Eddie’s head in his lap. Blood from his hands smears onto Eddie’s face. “Eddie, please,” he cries. “Please, please. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Bill grabs at Richie hand, and Richie tries to jerk away. “Trust me,” Bill says, pushing Richie’s fingers against Eddie’s neck. The truck rumbles and vibrates under them, and Richie’s hands are shaking, but then he feels it. A pulse. Weak but there. His chest seizes tight, and he presses his fingers in closer. It’s so hard to feel it, but it’s there. It’s there. It’s there. Mike is not driving fast enough.

Ben pumps his hands over Eddie’s chest, administering CPR as best he can with the truck taking turns wild and fast. Bill kneels at Richie’s side, wrapping the loose fabric of the tourniquet around Richie’s arm. Richie just holds Eddie in his lap, begging with God, the universe, nothing at all in a way he never has before. Just please let Eddie live because Richie can’t live without him. And quite frankly, fuck his life. Just let Eddie live. Let him have a chance to be free of all this bullshit they’ve been carrying around their entire lives. Let him live and be happy.

They arrive at the hospital in a whirlwind of chaos. Ben jumps from the truck bed, Bill helping Richie lower Eddie down. Richie tumbles over the side after them, scrambling to get his hands back at Eddie’s pulse. He needs to feel it. He needs to know.

They burst inside screaming. Nurses jump into action. There’s a stretcher, and nurses and orderlies try to push Richie away so they can take Eddie back. They need to go, Richie knows this, but he can’t unclench his fingers from Eddie’s shirt. “Let them, Rich,” Bill begs, pulling him back. Richie loses his grasp on Eddie, and they take him away. The doors swing shut behind them, and everything hits Richie at once, all the shock, all his own pain and blood loss, the three spots still seared onto his vision. Everything goes blurry and then dark.

The next time he’s aware of anything, his vision is still blurry, and the lights still shine too bright in his eyes. He tries to sit up, but his body isn’t really interested. A dark shape hovers over him, and oh God no, he’s back, he’s back in the cave, he’s back down there with It, It isn’t dead, It still has them—

Hands fall over him, and something loud and high pitched rings in the air, sending a wave of pain through his head. “Richie! Richie!” Bev’s voice. Bev’s hands on his face. “Richie, stop, honey, please. Stay still. You’re ok. Everyone’s ok.”

More shapes move around him, but he doesn’t know them like he knows Beverley, even as a blob. He jerks away from them, and everything hurts. The high pitched noise moves faster.

“Rich!” Ben is there too. “Richie, we’re in the hospital. Hey, it’s ok. Let the nurse work.” 

His mind starts to focus. He still can’t see, but he recognizes the noise as a heart monitor, and then he feels the wires connected to him. The shapes of the strangers are brightly colored—scrubs. They are in a hospital. They made it to the hospital.

“Eddie,” Richie gasps, starting to sit up again. Pain shoots through his body, but fuck, who cares. The hands all grab him again.

“Sir, please—“ One of the nurses says. Fuck her. He has to get to Eddie. He pulls at the wires of the heart monitor, which screams as the connections cut. The nurses yell. Ben and Bev yell. They all try to hold him down. Richie fights and fights, and God, the pain is so awful, and his stomach churns violently, but he has to get up. He has to get to Eddie.

Very suddenly, the world starts to slow again. Black creeps in from the edges of his vision. He stops fighting. He stops moving. Darkness overtakes him.

The next time Richie wakes up, he feels like he’s made of lead. A heavy lead body trying to move around in a pool of molasses. Everything is heavy and fuzzy. Two shapes fall over him, leaning in close. It only takes a few seconds for Richie to recognize them. Ben and Bev. They’re close enough that Richie can make out the burry expressions of concern and wariness.

“Don’t move, ok,” Ben says immediately, his hand falling over Richie’s forehead. “Don’t move, buddy. You’re in the hospital. Eddie’s here too. He’s out of surgery. Still unconscious, but he’s out. Bill and Mike are with him. You can see him soon, ok? But you’re hurt too. You need to let the doctor clear you to move, ok?”

Richie tries to blink the fuzz away. It doesn’t work. There’s three spots in his vision that won’t go away. “You’re not my dad,” he slurs. Ben laughs, his thumb rubbing lightly at Richie’s temple. He leans down and kisses the top of Richie’s head because he’s so stupidly sweet before telling Bev he’ll go find the doctor. Then Bev fills Richie’s sight, red hair a tangled, matted mess. She’s gorgeous. “I can’t see,” Richie says.

“Your glasses are here and cracked to hell,” Bev says, a hand lightly brushing Richie’s hair back. “But you’ve got a concussion. Let’s wait until the doctor checks you out to try putting them on.”

“Eddie—“

“Like Ben said,” Bev says, her grasp on Richie’s hand tightening a little like she expects Richie to try to sit up. She’s not wrong to think it. “He’s out of surgery now. They aren’t sure when he’s going to wake up. But the doctor think it’ll be soon. It was—we told them that we had dared each other to go into the house as a joke, that it collapsed on us while we were in. Said that it was a beam that fell through Eddie. They said if it had been a little more to the side—if it—he would have died. Richie.” Richie can’t see it, but he knows from Bev’s tone that she’s crying. “God, Rich. I saw. You grabbed him right before It—you saved his life.”

Too many emotions to process at once—especially with his drug addled mind—wash over him. For now, Richie settles on the relief so heavy he could drown in it. The sobs come hard, shaking him down to the bones, and it hurts. It hurts so much to cry like this. Bev’s arms are strong but carful around him.

The doctor and nurse come in, and they have to give Richie more medicine to stop his crying. He goes fuzzy all over again but stays awake enough to listen to the doctor tell him everything that’s wrong with him. And it’s a doozy of a list. There’s the concussion—Bev tells him later that it’s probably from when he landed after falling from the deadlights—his right ankle is fractured and the left sprained—from the same fall—his scalp and face are covered in cuts, but they’re comparatively small and likely won’t even scar. Plenty of bruises, but the creme de la creme is his left arm. Pennywise’s claw dug into his bicep down to the bone. The doctor estimates a long recovery and possibly more surgeries in the future.

But whatever to all of it. “When can I get up,” Richie asks. If he could move the arm Bev isn’t holding, he would flip her off for the exasperated little sigh Bev lets out.

“Your injuries are severe, Mr. Tozier,” the doctor says.

“That’s not what I asked,” Richie says. “When can I get up?” There’s a knock on the door frame, and then a shape Richie knows is Bill enters in the room. “How is he,” Richie asks immediately.

“Yeah, good to s-see you too,” Bill says, slipping past the nurse and over to Richie’s side. “He’s resting. You sh-should be too.”

“I can rest in a wheelchair in Eddie’s room,” Richie says. “When can I get up?” He turns a frown up to the doctor. He can’t see the facial expression there, but he sees the sigh.

“I’d like you to stay settled longer,” the doctor says. “One more good sleep, and then we can arrange something.”

“Then hit me up with the good stuff,” Richie says. “Sooner I’m out, the sooner I can get up.”

He gets his glasses back finally after he wakes up again. They are indeed cracked to hell—Bill promises that the first one of them to leave the hospital for whatever reason will go pick up his spares—and make him a little dizzy for a few minutes until he adjusts. The spots are still in his vision. He’ll have to ask Bev about that later. But it can wait, because the nurse finally comes around with a wheelchair, letting him be carried into Eddie’s recovery room.

Eddie looks terrible and beautiful all at the same time. His skin is too pale, and there are wires all over him, monitoring his heart, helping him breathe, feeding him medicine, but he’s alive and breathing, and he’s going to wake up, and so he’s the most beautiful Richie has ever seen him.

Bill maneuvers the chair and the IV so Richie can sit right up next to the bed and hold Eddie’s hand. His fingers are freezing. Richie folds his hand over to warm Eddie as best he can. The nurse in the room gives Richie a proper update on everything she’s allowed to disclose, and Richie cries in fear and worry and relief. Bill stands over him, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

Richie waits until the nurse leaves to tell Bill, “Stop touching me.”

Bill freezes. “Wh-what?”

“Stop touching me,” Richie repeats. He has a low-key dizzy high from the medications, but he’s awake enough to really feel and think, and in the equal measurements of relief that Eddie’s here and ok as can be given the circumstances, Richie is also very, very angry.

“Rich, what’s wrong,” Ben asks.

“You wanted to leave him,” Richie says, and Bill’s hand finally withdraws from his back, sharp and sudden as if he’s been shocked. “He got me out of the deadlights. He saved me. He’s our friend, and you all wanted to leave him in there to die alone.”

“Richie,” Mike says. “We didn’t—it wasn’t like that.”

“We were both hurt,” Richie says, his blood boiling. “We both needed help getting out. And you were all going to help me and leave him. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve even being here.”

“Richie,” Bev tries, tears shining in her eyes. Normally Richie would hate that. He would hate that anyone—that _he_ —would ever make Beverly cry, but she was part of it too. She wanted to leave Eddie. Eddie who went through the sewers and into Its cavern with a broken arm to rescue her.

Richie knows how hard he fought to hide it, from the moment he realized why he felt the way he did around Eddie. He spent his entire life in Derry pushing it down and away, denying and repressing it with every breath. It only burst from him once at the kissing bridge. He fought so hard, but it hadn’t mattered. People had still seen. People had known. He never told the rest of them—Stan knew; Richie never actually told him, but he knows that Stan knew—so they had no confirmation, but with all the rumors, Richie knows they had to have wondered. And if they wondered, if they just looked, it doesn’t matter how hard he tried, it was all there for anyone to see. They don’t even need to know that he and Eddie spent a recent year fucking.

Richie has been in love with Eddie since he was ten years old, and the rest of them have to know, leaving Eddie to die, they’d have to leave Richie too, because he wouldn’t survive it.

He doesn’t need the relationship back. He’s been miserable without Eddie, but he doesn’t need it. He just needs Eddie to be ok. Stan is gone, the best friend Richie ever had, gone before Richie had the chance to see him again. The reality of that is starting to creep up on him, and he knows it’s going to leave him wrecked. But Eddie—he just needs Eddie to be ok. He can live with everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat around forever trying to decide which of them should get clown stabbed. Then it occurred to me: both is good


	10. Chapter 10

They tell Eddie later that he’s woken up a few times, but he doesn’t remember the brief spells of consciousness. But when he does finally have awareness of the things going on around him, he sees that he’s in the hospital, connected to all sorts of machines. The doctor and nurse are both present to check him over and tell him the extent of his injuries. But most importantly, his friends are there. Richie is there, sitting in a wheelchair at his bedside, one arm in a sling, the other connected to his own IV, and tears streaming down his blotchy, red face.

“You’re ok,” Eddie asks, and Richie’s grasp on his hand tightens.

“Shut up,” Richie blubbers. “Oh my God, you dumb brave idiot, shut up. I’m not the one who got impaled. Jesus fuck.” Eddie smiles at him. Richie is hurt, but he’s alive and ok. All of them made it out, and that fucker is dead. It’s finally over.

“You all look really fucking gross,” Eddie says—slurs more than anything else—as they hover over his bed.

“Hey,” Bev says, swallowed up in a shirt that is clearly not hers, “all of us except Richie have showered.”

Eddie is hopped up on pain killers, but he does not miss the oddly shy, almost wary look Bev shoots to Richie after the jab—and it’s not even much of one—leaves her mouth, nor the tightness in Richie’s voice when he responds, “I’m scheduled for a sexy sponge bath in an hour.” None of them roll their eyes like they usually would, and Richie doesn’t take the joke any further. Eddie blinks at Richie, but he gives nothing away, an unreadable brick wall in the way he gets sometimes. Eddie looks over at Bev, but she too avoids his glance.

It’s a few more hours before Eddie finds out what’s up. Richie has been forced back to his own room by his nurse to get some sleep, and Mike brings Ben and Bev back to his loft to let Bev have a place of peace from which to have another long conversation with her divorce lawyer. Bill stays with Eddie, chair pulled up next to the bed and his phone held loosely in his hand. He’s been in and out of the room on calls with his wife, with the director of his movie, with the studio representatives, and he looks too old, older than all of them, as he slumps down in the chair.

“You ok,” Eddie asks.

“No, Eddie, I am f-fucking not,” Bill says, and he grins when Eddie throws back his head and laughs. “Ok, ok, not so hard,” he urges when Eddie cradles his chest through his giggles. “It’s not th-that funny.”

“Fuck off, I’m in a good mood,” Eddie says.

“Weird flex,” Bill says, and Eddie asks, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s a m-meme,” Bill says and then rolls his eyes at the look Eddie shoots him. “I have teenaged n-nephews. I know a few things.”

“Doesn’t mean you should say it,” Eddie says. “But seriously, you ok? Your wife and everything?”

“Yeah,” Bill sighs. “Yeah, she’s—it’s—fuck. I don’t know wh-what I’m going to actually tell her, b-but she sounds more worried than p-pissed now so that’s s-something.”

Eddie nods. “Is Richie ok,” he asks, and Bill looks at him sharply. “I know I’m high, but I’m not that high. Something’s up.”

Eddie is in no way expecting Bill to crumple, face dropping into his hands as he begins to sob. Weirdly, it ranks among the most alarming things that have happened over the past few days, because Bill has never been a crier. Even his overwhelming grief over Georgie had produced few tears that Eddie actually saw. “Fuck,” Eddie says, and then he really isn’t expecting Bill to start apologizing.

“I’m s-s-sorry, Eddie,” he cries. “I’m s-so s-sorry.”

“No, hey,” Eddie says, reaching for him. He hates seeing any of his friends cry. Seeing Bill cry has always been terrible in a different way, what Eddie imagines other people feel when they see their own parents crying. Eddie’s mother had used tears as a weapon against him, but Bill had always felt to Eddie like what characters in tv shows and movies saw their dads as. And the group’s Big Brother Bill had always sort of been a thing, but Eddie knows there were times as a kid when he would try to imagine how his own father would have handled a situation, and he always found himself just imagining Bill, Bill’s words, even his stutter, his mannerisms, all just pasted over the fuzzy image of Frank Kaspbrak in Eddie’s mind.

“R-richie’s p-pissed at us,” Bill says. “And he sh-should be. He’s right. We w-w-were—God, fuck, Ed—we w-were—“

“Hey, hey,” Eddie says, tugging at Bill’s sleeve. Bill falls into him gently, and Eddie rearranges wires to hold onto him better. “You what?”

“We w-were g-going to luh-leave you,” Bill sobs. “I thought—I thought you were alr-r-ready g-gone at first, and th-then I didn’t k-know how we w-w-were going to get you out, and R-r-r-richie—shit, R-richie was—he was going to st-stay. He t-tried to m-m-make us leave him too, with you down there. He w-was, God, Eddie, he w-w-would have r-rather—and I d-didn’t—I d-didn’t m-mean to—but Stan, and then you, and I c-c-couldn’t—“

A lot of emotions hit Eddie all at once. First there’s a sort of panicked dread. If they hadn’t been able to drag him up and out, he would have died. He really would have died alone in the dark in the fucking clown’s liar, where It slept and waited until It was ready for another frenzy of fear and feeding. But Richie wouldn’t let them. Richie would have stayed. And that makes him angry, because what the fuck, Richie would rather be crushed to death, pointlessly throwing away his life, just to what? Have his broken body buried right by Eddie’s? Fuck that.

But the mention of Stan, the absolutely gut-wrenching way Bill says his name, Eddie just understands. “It’s ok, Billy,” Eddie says, holding Bill as tight as he can manage. “It’s ok. I get it. I know. You couldn’t lose him too. Thank you, ok, thank you. Even if—“ He shudders, and Bill clings so tightly to the hospital gown that it cuts into Eddie’s neck. He does not care. “Even if you had to leave me, if you got him out too, it would have been ok. It is ok. I’ll talk to him. I’m not mad, ok? I’m not mad. It was an impossible situation, and you were just trying your best. I love you guys so much.”

“He’s n-not wr-wrong,” Bill mutters into Eddie’s neck.

“I’m the one who got impaled and almost buried underneath Neibolt. I’ll decide who’s wrong here,” Eddie says, and Bill hiccups.

“Lug-leave the shitty jokes to R-rich,” he says. Then a brief but heavy silence. “I don’t blame him.”

“Yeah, well, if he ever wants me to dick him down again, he’s going to stop being mad at you for fucking caring that he lives,” Eddie says, and Bill shoots up, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“W-wha-wha—“

Eddie shrugs. Fuck secrets. He’s done hiding who he is. He’s done hiding how much he loves Richie. “You remember when you asked what was up with me and Richie the other day? Yeah, totally in love with him. Have been since we were kids. Like, the second I’m no longer pain med high, I’m calling my lawyers and filing for divorce.”

Bill blinks owlishly for a long moment.

“ _Again_?”

``

Richie doesn’t stay in his room long. A nurse, looking so, so put out, wheels him back in while Bill is off on another call with his studio. Although Eddie can’t complain too much about having Richie beside him again, he does wish the idiot would take the time to get some actual rest. He’s fucking injured too, could have lost his arm, and he looks so incredibly weary. But his eyes do light up with something when Eddie reaches out for him and their hands fold around each other.

“Hey, care to actually talk about our issues and feelings for once,” Eddie asks, and Richie blinks a bit panicked at him from behind his cracked glasses. Eddie knows Richie was out on tour when they got the call and thus wouldn’t have had too many personal items at his disposal, but so characteristically opposite to Eddie, Richie had only grabbed enough to fill the bottom of a duffle on his way out. He certainly hadn’t considered his extra pair of glasses.

“Please, man,” Eddie says, squeezing Richie’s hand. “We’ve got a shit ton to talk about. And I want to. I want to talk about it this time.” He made so many mistakes before by choosing not to talk. He’s never going to treat Richie like that again, even if the conversations are hard, even if everything in them both fights against the aching vulnerability of baring their souls.

They’ve both spent their whole lives hiding. No more.

Richie’s responding nod is almost meek, but at least he keeps his eyes locked onto Eddie. “First thing,” Eddie says, “you cannot be pissed off at them for wanting to make sure you got out of there alive. No, no, don’t fucking argue with me on this one, Rich. You can’t be mad at them for that.”

Richie’s frown deepens. “That’s not why I’m mad,” he says. “Eddie, they were going to—“

“I know what happened,” Eddie interrupts. “I talked to Bill, ok? He did his crying, his begging me to forgive him, all that jazz. Rich, it wasn’t about leaving me, ok? You know that. You _know_ that. Richie, they love you so much. After everything, how could they lose you too?”

“I couldn’t—“ Richie starts, tears running down his cheeks. “I’m just—it wouldn’t have mattered.”

A desperate sort of anger and fear grip at Eddie’s heart. He squeezes Richie’s hand as hard as he can, hard enough that Richie winces. “It matters. Fuck, of course it matters. What the fuck are you talking about? Richie, Christ.”

Richie shrugs miserably. “I’m just—I don’t have anything. If I—fuck. It’s been twenty-five years since I’ve seen most of them. What would they even—“

“Richie,” Eddie says very seriously. “Richie, listen to me. Fuck you, ok? Fuck that entire line of thinking. Jesus Christ. You still love them, don’t you?”

Richie sobs. It’s a quick and broken sounding thing. “So much,” he answers.

“And they do too,” Eddie says. “They love you as much as you love them. God, Rich, they always have.” He knows that as the most fundamental fact of his life. The Losers are family. They love each other more than anything else. Eddie knows how much they all love him, how much they all love Richie, because it’s exactly how much he loves all of them in return. Eddie would do anything in the world for any of them, and they would do the same right back. Eddie knows this with such surety, and he can’t believe Richie doesn’t seem to know it on his own.

“And I wouldn’t have wanted you down there,” Eddie says, pulling Richie closer. Their combined stupid, fucking injuries and assortment of medical equipment prevent Eddie from wrapping Richie up tight in his arms the way he wants to. “I don’t want you down there. Richie, what if it had been Ben? And Bev wanted to stay? What would you have done?”

Richie shudders. “Fuck,” he sobs again. “Fuck, I’d have just picked her up and ran.”

“And would Ben have blamed you? Or would his last words to you have literally been that he loves you and now get her out?” Eddie combs his fingers through Richie’s tangled hair. “You know the answer. Don’t be mad at them, sweetheart, please.” Richie’s breath catches. “Please, sweetheart,” Eddie says again.

“It—it might take a couple of days,” Richie says softly.

“That’s ok,” Eddie says. “Just not any longer or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Good luck, invalid,” Richie hiccups.

“Dude, you are confined to a wheelchair that you cannot maneuver yourself with three busted limbs,” Eddie says. “You are barely a step up from me.”

“But I’m mobile,” Richie argues.

“You’re peeing into a fucking bag,” Eddie says and grins when Richie predictably mutters, “I know you are but what am I?”

They sit silently for a long moment, Eddie still running his fingers through Richie’s hair, Richie’s face nuzzled into Eddie’s neck. Eddie doesn’t imagine it’s comfortable with his injured arm, but Eddie doesn’t quite want to move him away just yet.

“You called me sweetheart,” Richie says, his voice barely a whisper.

“I did,” Eddie says.

“Eddie—“

“I’m filing for divorce,” Eddie says, and Richie goes stiff. He all but leaps away from Eddie, sitting ramrod straight against the back of his chair and staring with overly wide eyes. “Yes, it’s absolutely about you, and no, it’s not about you at all. I should have done it so long ago, before I even met you again, and then I was a complete fucking coward for not doing it after, because, Richie, fuck, Rich, I love you. I’ve loved you for so long, longer than I’ve ever even understood, and there’s no pressure here, Rich. You don’t have to—I would understand if you didn’t—but I’m divorcing Myra, and if you want to, we can take it from there.”

Richie sits in stunned silence for a long moment, long enough that it makes Eddie itchy under his skin. He wants to shake him, demand that Richie respond in some way, but he lies there waiting, giving Richie all the time he deserves to process this fucking bomb.

“Eds,” Richie starts, expression open and raw, his voice full of something that is either going to make or break Eddie’s entire universe, and then the fucking Nokia ringtone blasts obnoxiously through the room.

“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie snaps as Richie fumbles around for his phone. “That’s your ringtone? Fucking Christ, I’m in love with a fucking idiot.”

“As the kids say, ‘we been knew,’” Richie says, smile wobbly as he finally pulls the phone out. “Sorry, Eds, my manager was—“

Richie stops, his face going completely white. The ringtone continues on.

“Richie,” Eddie asks. He grabs at Richie’s wrist, pulling so he can see the phone screen. It’s an unknown number. The area code is Atlanta.

Richie answers the call, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hello,” he says, and the one word sucks all the oxygen from the room. Eddie doesn’t know if the other end of the line is silent, if this moment without knowing is actually this long or if Eddie is completely frozen in time waiting to hear something that can’t be true. His heart thunders against his ribs, threatening to burst through the stapled hole in his chest.

Then, an eon later, Richie says, “Stan.”

“Speaker phone,” Eddie hisses, scrambling up, reaching for Richie and tugging at his arm. “Speaker phone!”

“We killed It,” Richie says, voice dazed.

Eddie yanks the phone away from Richie’s face and jabs forcefully at the speaker button. Stan’s laughter rings out, small and tinny. “Yeah, I fucking figured,” he says.

“Stan,” Eddie cries. “Stanley, is that fucking you?”

“Eddie!”

“Oh fuck, oh holy fuck, Stan—“

“Are y’all still in Derry,” Stan asks, and Richie lets out a hysterical bubble of laughter. “Shut up, Richie,” Stan adds.

Eddie nods for a dumb moment before realizing that Stan can’t see it. “We are. In the hospital. Rich and I—“

“I am too,” Stan says. “I’m being released right now. Patty is booking tickets. We can be there in a few hours. First flight she finds.”

“You’re coming here,” Richie asks. “You’re—“ He chokes on a sob, and Eddie pulls him close again.

“Yeah, Rich,” Stan says, so soft. “Yeah, buddy. Soon. Just a few hours.”

The call ends, and they sit there staring at each other. “Did that really—“ Eddie starts to ask. Richie’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no words come out. Eddie’s fingers tighten around his wrist, and Richie just stares off into the distance. Eddie pulls the phone from his slack grasp and calls Bill to get back up to the room immediately.

Bill goes into a shaken version of his big brother mode after Eddie explains the call. His hands are trembling, and his face is ashen, but he turns all his focus into coaxing Richie from his shock while Eddie calls Mike.

Waiting is excruciating. Stan and Patty keep them updated every step of the way, from loading up their Lyft with their luggage to passing the Welcome To Derry sign. But not having eyes on Stan is torture.

Eddie sits clinging to Richie’s hand so tightly both of their fingers are going numb, but it’s the only thing keeping Eddie from screaming right there. So much is happening. So many life altering things, and he has no idea what to actually focus on, and so his brain is just a whirlwind of scattered fragments that he can’t hold onto for more than a brief moment.

 _Stan is alive. I told Richie I love him. Call divorce lawyers. I’m alive. Divide assets. Clown. Clown is dead. Myra is gonna fucking flip. Stan: the same, only taller. I told Richie that I love him. Ben and Bev are holding hands. Just a metric ass ton of sutures and staples holding my chest together right now. Bath tub. She can have the house. Fuck the house. Need to cash in on that PTO. Sewer smell is still lodged in my nose. I told Richie that I love him. Ben and Bev are holding hands, and Ben is kissing Bev’s knuckles, and that looks like it’s calming her down. Need to pull up a copy of the prenup. Stan is coming here. Wonder if my car is out of the shop yet? Shit job if it is. I told Richie that I love him, and that conversation has not been finished_.

Mike has Richie’s phone now, so he’s the one who responds to Stan’s inquiry about Eddie’s room number. The tension in the room threatens to snap all of them. The monitor leaves absolutely no room for Eddie to hide how fast his heart is hammering. Richie’s face is drawn and pale, his throat working like he might throw up. Bev cracks both her knuckles and Ben’s, who winces at the sounds. He always hated the noise of popping joints, Eddie remembers. Bill’s hair stands completely on end with how many times he’s run his fingers through it, and Mike stares at the door like it’s the answer for his absolution.

The door opens, and Bev lets out a startled squeak. A tall blonde woman steps through first, moving quickly out of the way for the man behind her. And there he is. Stanley. The same, but older. He looks exactly like Eddie imagined, down to the chunky, knitted sweater.

Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat, and as they all stare at him, Stan looks back, serious eyes studying each of them in turn. In that moment, the last piece clicks back into place. They’re all here again. All seven of them together for the first time since Bev moved away at the end of that summer. This is what they’ve all been missing for twenty-seven years, and in that moment, every other problem in the world lifts away. Eddie feels like he could fucking fly.

“Richie,” Stan says first, and Richie immediately bursts into tears. Stan moves fast, actually skipping right past Ben and Bev to fold Richie up into a tight hug. They cling to each other, Richie’s sobs loud and bordering on hyperventilation, Stan’s voice lower and soothing, but he’s crying too. Then Stan pulls one hand away from Richie for just long enough to make a waving motion, and the others all unfreeze. Ben and Bev get there first. Mike practically vaults over Eddie’s bed, and Bill takes the time to push the huddled mass as close to Eddie as they can get so he can be part of the hug too.

It’s a long time that they all cling to each other, not one of them dry-eyed. Finally there’s movement from the center of the hug, and the rest of them push back, still hovering close.Stan turns his soft smile to all of them before his attention goes back to Richie. “You look so gross,” he says. “Just a human snot rag.”

Richie sniffles loudly. “Shut up,” he says. “We heard—your wife said—“

Stan then takes Richie’s face in his hands, thumbs wiping at his wet cheeks under his glasses. There’s a certain gleam in Stan’s eyes that Eddie recognizes that Richie hasn’t picked up on yet. He’s ready and grinning when Stanley says in a completely deadpanned voice, “I lived, bitch.”

And Richie laughs in the way that only Stan has ever been able to make him laugh, louder and more wild than anything. When they were kids, it used to make Eddie nearly unhinged with jealousy. Right now, it’s just about the best thing Eddie has ever seen, and he wants to spend the next fifty years hearing Stan make Richie laugh like that.

Stan, very smug, presses a smacking kiss to Richie’s forehead. “Lover, not in front of your wife,” Richie hiccups in some French accent that is both horrendous and incredibly good. “She’d try to tear us apart.”

In an equally horrendous accent—something that shifts a little more towards Borat and causes Stan to make an extremely pained expression—his wife pipes up, “She is recording the whole thing!” And in fact, she is holding her phone and clearly taking pictures of the reunion. “Hi, everyone. Hi. I’m Patty.”

Ben attempts to just shake Patty’s hand, but she’s clearly a hugger. She squeezes all of them as tightly as various injuries allow for. When she gets to Richie, she says, “Stan has not stopped talking about you since we decided to fly out. We have been together twenty years, and it’s the only subject he’s had more to say on than birds.”

“Nerd,” Richie says automatically, completely belied by his snotty grin that turns into an almost shy—for Richie at least—smile. “But like us in general or me specifically?”

“Well, yes, all of you,” Patty says, pulling back. She offers Richie a wink. “But you, I got an entire dossier on you. Presidents are not so well briefed.”

“I knew you loved me the most,” Richie says, craning his head to beam up at Stan.

“Absolutely not, cannot stand the sight of you,” Stan says without expression, dropping a hand onto Richie’s head and scratching lightly at his scalp. Richie stretches up into it like a cat. Another thing that would have made Eddie want to explode s a kid, but now something he can only look on with incredible fondness. He wants this so much for Richie, for all of his friends. To see them love and be loved by each other.

Patty pulls over one of the spare chairs, pushing it right up against Richie’s wheelchair. Stan sits obediently when she points to it. Richie beams at him wetly, and Stan’s smile is softly affectionate before he takes in Richie’s arm. He carefully studies the dressings and sling before moving onto the cast and brace on his legs. Then Stan looks at Eddie, the bandages lumped under his hospital gown, all the wires connected to machines.

Guilt clouds his expression, and tears begin to well in his eyes. “God, you—I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Eddie starts, “Stan, no.” He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t blame Stan for a second, and he doesn’t want to hear any more of his friends feeling blame and guilt for things that aren’t their faults.

“I should have been here,” Stan continues on. “You all came back, and I—I’m so sorry.”

Richie is on exactly the same wavelength as Eddie. Crying beside Stan, he reaches out and grasps at his hand. “Please don’t,” he says. “you’re here now. That’s all—you’re here. You’re alive.”

“How are you alive,” Bev asks, her voice heavy with confusion and lingering grief and so, so much relief. “I saw—“

Stan swallows thickly. “I couldn’t cut—I couldn’t take it,” he says, gaze falling to the floor. The others all pack in, ready to listen. “I—“ He trails off, and Petty rubs a hand over his back.

“Do you want me to tell them,” she asks lowly, and Stan nods, folding into her. And she goes on to explain what happened the night Stan received Mike’s phone call. How Stanley had immediately gone white, tried to wave off her worries, went upstairs to take a bath. She tells them how she’d just had the worst feeling, that after what happened she is convinced it was a message from God, a miracle. After a moment, she had followed Stan up the stairs and found that the door had been locked, which it never was.

But they had these old decorative doorhandles, ones that were easy to pick. So she had, not even bothering to knock first. She says that the sight of Stanley sitting in the water, water that was blossoming red, had at first frozen her in place. In reality she doesn’t think it was more than a second, but that second had been as long as a lifetime.

“And you know that thing where like something heavy falls over their kids, and mothers just get that insane spike of adrenaline and can lift up a car,” she says. “I kind of got something like that. I couldn’t panic, I couldn’t fumble, I just acted.”

She had pulled her phone from her pocket, dialed 911, and put it on speaker. As the operator answered, she was pulling the decorative monogramed washcloths from the towel rack. She pulled Stanley’s arms from the water and wrapped them first in the washcloths and then with a bigger towel, holding them together tightly, determined to keep the blood in his body.

She hadn’t been anything close to polite, but she doesn’t imagine 911 operators hear politeness too much. She had simply yelled out their address, said her husband had cut his wrists, and demanded an ambulance as fast as possible. The operator tried to ask her more details and direct her on how to administer aid until the ambulance arrived. “I yelled at her that I wasn’t an idiot, I was covering the wounds and putting all the pressure I could on them, I didn’t need her to tell me how to do anything, just get that ambulance there now.”

And the ambulance came and took Stanley away. She spent hours at the hospital waiting to hear the worst news of her life, sitting in grief and despair as the doctors told her to not bother with hope, that he wouldn’t wake up, but then suddenly Stanley had pulled through. And when he woke up, he told her everything.

“You believed him,” Bill asks in awe.

“It was a lot,” Patty says. “But I know my husband isn’t a liar, and this was not something he would do because he was—I don’t know—crazy or something.” She intertwines her fingers with Stanley’s and kisses them. The look Stanley gives her is so soft that it takes the breath out of Eddie’s chest, and he knows he’s going to feel indebted to Patty for his entire life for keeping Stan alive.

“You hit the fucking jackpot, Stan,” Richie says thickly. He looks at Bev with a wobbly smile. “Bev. Bev, babe, I’m sorry, but I think for the first time in my life, you’ve got competition.”

Patty turns a grin up to Bev. “Does that mean we need to meet in the ring?”

“Too good for Richie,” Bev says with a teary smirk. “Waffle House parking lot at 3:00 AM. Using debris from the nearest dumpster highly encouraged.”

“Yeah, yeah, trash the Trashmouth,” Richie huffs. “Can we focus here? We have a new queen, savior, and overlord.”

“And, what,” Ben asks, teasing, “the rest of us over here who fought off an alien sewer clown are all fucking chopped liver?” Eddie and Bill both point at him in agreement.

“I don’t know,” Bev says. “Patty does seem very cool. And I’m all for turning this gang into less of a sausage fest.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s been very trying for you,” Mike ribs. “Beautiful girl surrounded by a gang of boys who all adore her, even outside of hormonal, love triangle bullshit.”

Ben and Bill both turn bright red, and Stan heaves a sigh of great suffering. “Please tell me that’s not still a thing.”

Bev slips her hand into Ben’s. “I’m over it,” she says, and Ben blushes all the harder. Richie, Mike, and Eddie make obligatory noises—wolf whistles at Ben and loud ooohhhs at Bill, who flips them off fondly.

It’s a few more joking moments before Stan tries to apologize again for not being there. This time it’s Richie who tells him to shove it. “Stop it, Stanley. Seriously. You’re here now. Who the fuck cares anymore? You’re alive. We’re all alive, and that sloppy bitch is dead.”

Mike starts laughing. “Oh God, listen to this shit, Stan,” he cries. “Rich really called It a sloppy bitch before It got him in the deadlights. Saved my ass and then tried to pull a Die Hard line.”

“Sloppy bitch, really,” Stan asks, highly judgmental.

“Was It not,” Richie asks. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“And look what you got for your troubles,” Bev says, her smile only a little tight.

“Damsel in distress with Eddie coming in as the knight in shining armor,” Ben says, reaching around Bev’s perch on the foot of the bed to lightly knock his fist against Eddie’s leg. “He launched a fucking spear right into Its mouth.”

“Ridiculous,” Richie tells Stan, jerking his thumb at Eddie. “Pint sized nerd suddenly landing a gold in the javelin.”

“Excuse you, Trashmouth,” Eddie snaps. “You’re the fucking nerd. I ran track in high school and college. I’m a jock.”

“What,” Richie yelps, tearing his eyes away from Stan to gape at Eddie’s admittedly smug grin, which only gets smugger when Bill says, “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Richie cries. “Hold the fuck up. Eddie’s a jock?”

He looks around the room, clearly waiting for someone to break and expose the joke. But Stan says, “You started junior year, didn’t you, Eddie? Senior year you won, like, everything you ran in. Rich, y’all’d moved by then.”

Richie just sputters, and Eddie cannot help the extremely self-satisfied feeling that blossoms warmly in his chest. Richie knows that Eddie works out. He knows that because he lost his shit over Eddie having visible abs more than once, which always resulted in Eddie informing him that diet and exercise were crucial to a healthy lifestyle. And Richie has definitely expressed gratitude for the results of Eddie’s desire to work out. He’d enjoyed clinging to and staring at Eddie’s thighs, particularly while blowing him. So Eddie, knowing Richie as he does, assumes that Richie is imagining Eddie in a track uniform. Specifically the shorts, and Eddie also knows that Richie does not have the mental fortitude to imagine Eddie in track shorts. He sits and watches Richie’s facial journey and thinks he’ll have to send thank you cards and fruit baskets out to his friends for forcing Richie to mentally process this, which is clearly too much for him as he’s too distressed to do anything more than lay on the thickest Southern accent he can and crow, “Oh my Stars and Stripes, Stanley.”

If things work out the way Eddie hopes they do, he is going to be taking up running again very, very regularly.

``

The full reunion of the Losers Club, catching up on Stan’s life—(“Oh, so you’re not going to say a word on Stan being an accountant?”

“What? Why would I?”

“That’s not a boring job? Not invented before fun? Just so on the mark, like oh, of course Stan’s an accountant?”

“Of course, Stan is an accountant, Eddie. Do you not see his perfectly respectable sweater?”

“I did not miss this at all.”)—remembering more stories from childhood, meeting Patty—who feels like another piece of home—it makes Eddie completely forget about the outside world. It makes him forget to be even remotely bothered with all those other things that don’t matter—his physical recovery, work, bills, none of that matters, how could it when he finally has his real family back around him—so much so that the harried nurse coming in to tell him that he has a phone call would have knocked Eddie clear off his feet if he had actually been standing. As it turns out, he just lies there and blinks up at her so uncomprehending that she might as well be speaking Ancient Greek.

“Mr. Kaspbrak,” the nurse says, gently but clearly overly tired, holding out the receiver ofthe landline on the table next to his bed. “Your wife is on the line.”

“Um,” Eddie says unintelligently, blinking at the plastic light that does seem to be flashing red with an incoming call. “My—?”

“Wife,” the nurse says. “Yes, she seems to have not been able to get a hold of you directly. She’s very upset. If you could please take this.” She shakes the receiver at him, finger hovering over the button that will patch Myra through. He just stares at it as if he’s never seen one before in his life, can’t comprehend what it might be used for.

“Eddie,” Bill asks after a moment of the room sitting in uncomfortable silence.

Eddie looks over at him, at the rest of his friends, confused and thoughts completely adrift until his wandering eyes land on Richie’s face and he comes crashing into the reality of the situation. Richie looks like a deer caught in the headlights. A deer ready to blow chunks all over the place. He locks eyes with Eddie and starts to shake.

“This is not going to be a good conversation,” Eddie tells him, aware that speaking to Richie like this directly is telling, especially after what he’s already said to Bill, but it’s hard to care too much about the transparency of that when Richie looks like he does right now. He reaches for Richie when Richie clenches both his fists so tightly his knuckles go white. Eddie assumes it probably hurts a great deal on his injured arm, and he rubs his thumb over Richie’s hand until he eases up a bit. “I think you should go get some rest for awhile,” Eddie says, as if he thinks for a second Richie will be able to rest and relax knowing that Eddie is on the phone with Myra telling her he’s filing for divorce.

Jesus Christ, he’s about to tell Myra that he wants a divorce. He’s actually going to fucking do it.

A part of him wants Richie to stay in the room, a firm reminder of exactly what Eddie is really doing here. Richie is the future he wants. They still haven’t talked further since Stan’s call, and so Richie hasn’t made his intentions known, but he knows Eddie wants to be with him. Eddie told him. Eddie will keep telling him up until Richie tells Eddie to shut up and fuck off. That’s an option. It’s an option that sucks, but Eddie will accept it if Richie wants it. But Richie is what Eddie wants, and he’s going to do everything he needs to do to be free to grab that future if it’s offered.

But Richie doesn’t deserve to sit through listening to this. Eddie looks around the room. “Guys,” he says. They need to take Richie somewhere else, be with him and distract him as much as they can.

Stan moves first. He drops a gentle, solid hand on Eddie’s shoulder and stands up. Patty falls into his side immediately and offers Eddie a look of overwhelming support, as firmly on his side as if she’s known him for all the years they should have. Mike touches Eddie’s shoulder too as he walks around the bed, moving to take control of Richie’s wheelchair. “I’ll handle it,” Eddie promises to Richie before Mike moves him away. “I’ve got it.”

Richie nods, eyes wet. “Fuck. Ok,” Richie says. “Ok. I’ll—ok.”

“It will be, Rich,” Eddie says. “I promise.”

Richie nods again, squeezing Eddie’s hand tight before letting go. Ben leans down and hugs Eddie before taking his own place hovering by Mike and Richie. They all file out of the room expect Bill and Bev. Bill, his best friend. Bev, who understands exactly what Eddie is about to go through. When the door closes behind his friends, Eddie sighs, steels himself, and accepts the phone from the nurse.

“Eddie!” Myra’s voice is a mixing pot of panic, relief, and irritation. For a brief second, all Eddie hears is his mother’s voice, and it sends a cold shock down his spine. No, he thinks. No. For all the bullshit, for all the ways in which their marriage is so broken, no, Myra is not Sonia. She never did to Eddie what his mother did.

“I’ve been trying to call you for days,” Myra wails in a way that Eddie can tell is very real. And it’s understandable. By now his phone is a cracked heap of plastic and glass, so drowned in sewer water that it has no hope of ever turning on again, rice and oven tricks be damned. But before all that, he had let everything go to voicemail, and it was a dick move. “And then the insurance company called. Eddie, Eddie, what’s going on? What happened to you?”

“Myra, please calm down,” Eddie says evenly. “Just—deep breaths, ok? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone. I should have, and I should have had someone call you. But—listen—hey—deep breaths, ok?”

He can picture her exactly based on the wheezing sounds of her cries, the exact shade of red her cheeks and eyes have turned, how puffed they are from her rubbing at them. He knows she’s probably bitten down harshly at her cuticles in a way that will require, in her opinion, numerous manicures to later fix.

“Ok, listen,” Eddie says when he can hear her trying to hold her breath to contain the sobbing. “Yes, I’m in the hospital right now. There was an accident—“

“Oh, God, Eddie,” she cries. “I knew it! I knew it was a bad idea for you to leave. I had such a bad feeling. I’m coming, ok? I’m coming to take care of you and—“

“Myra, no,” Eddie starts.

“You never should have left,” she continues on. “Oh, God. Oh, Eddie, dear, you just hang on, ok? I’m—“

“Myra, stop,” Eddie says sharply. “Stop. You are not coming up here.”

“I’m—what are you talking about? Of course I am. I’m your—“

“Myra, I want a divorce.”

The line goes silent. So silent Eddie is sure she isn’t even breathing. Eddie finally looks over at Bill and Bev. Bill’s eyes are wide and almost wild in the way they project his concern. Bev, on the other hand, Bev is made of steel. Bev is doing exactly what Eddie is, and she’s going to be there for him the way she’s going to need him there for her. Divorce Buddies, a fun new club just for them.

“Myra,” Eddie says, and she responds immediately, “You have a head injury.”

“I absolutely do not,” Eddie says. “Myra, I’m serious. I want a—“

“You do. You must. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you didn’t. What sort of backwards place have they put you in, Eddie? Clearly these people aren’t competent enough to give you proper care. I’ll get to work on it right away, dear. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you back to New York, and the doctors here—“

“Will say the same fucking thing. I don’t have a goddamn head injury, Myra. You need to listen to me. This is happening. I’m filing as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“Eddie!”

“This is not a good relationship,” Eddie says. “We are not good for each other. This should have happened a long time ago.”

The crying shifts. It sends another jolt of ice down Eddie’s spine as he hears it. Myra isn’t thinking about her more legitimate worries over Eddie’s physical health anymore. She’s hearing what he’s saying, hearing him call this thing what it is, and she’s scared and ready to do whatever she thinks she needs to do to fight against it.

It’s not exactly what it was when his mother did it. His mother used her position as his parent and caregiver, the person who was supposed to be taking care of him because he was just a child, as a weapon. His father was dead, and she was what he had left, and did he not love her after all that she did for him? Sonia knew that while Eddie was a child he didn’t have options, and the older he got, the more desperate she became to try to hold him under her thumb and keep him as the tiny, fragile china doll she saw him as. Myra, she can’t treat him like that exactly. She knows even through all the bullshit co-dependency they’ve built up that Eddie can leave at any time and not actually need her, that she cannot legally keep him wherever she wants him. They’ve lived in the illusion for so long, and to be confronted with the reality that it can actually happen, is actually happening, Myra howls with her everything.

“Eddie, don’t say these things! What has gotten into you? Oh, God, is someone—who is making you say this? You would never—I’m your wife. You love me. You love me. You’ve said it. You always say it. Who would make you do this, say these awful things?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches tightly. “I’m saying them on my own,” he says through his teeth. “You have to stop. You—you know this is all bullshit.” She practically screams, something overly dramatic and wordless that makes Eddie have to shout over her in a way he very much wanted to avoid for once in their lives. “Stop it! Jesus Christ, stop! The fuck, Myra.”

“Eddie, please! Eddie, I’ll—I’m coming, ok? I’m coming, and we can talk in person, and we’ll get this all sorted. You’ll see!”

“You are not coming here,” Eddie snaps. “Myra—“

“You’re doing so much worse than I feared, but I’ll talk sense into you—“

“I am telling the hospital that you are not allowed to see me,” Eddie says. “Myra, I’m fucking serious. Do not come here. I don’t want to see you.”

She talks right over him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything, Eddie, dear. I love you. And you love me.”

“I do not love you,” Eddie yells. “Just stop! Don’t you dare try to—“

“I’ll bring you home! You’ll see, Eddie. It’ll be just like it was. We’re happy. We’re in love. We’re—“

“For fuck’s sake, Myra, I’m gay,” Eddie shouts, and Beverly gasps loudly. Eddie shoots her a glare, and she grabs a fist full of Bill’s t-shirt, shaking him as he just sits there, accepting the manhandling in alarmed silence.

“WHAT,” Myra shrieks.

Eddie certainly had not meant to say that, not even a little bit. He didn’t want to bring up anything even remotely Richie adjacent at all, but there it is. He said it. He said it to Myra. He said it in front of Bill and Bev. So he says it again, “I’m gay, Myra. I’m gay, and we are getting divorced. Do not come to Maine. Do not call me again. From now on, we’re talking through lawyers. Good-bye.”

He hangs up and turns wide eyes to Bill and Bev. They stare back.

Holy fucking shit.

“So,” Bev says after a long moment, her hand still fisted in Bill’s shirt so tight it’s practically a chokehold. “You’re gay?”

Eddie cuts his eyes to Bill, and he can see the gears turn in Bill’s head to produce the mathematical formula of Eddie + Gay + Eddie Said He’s In Love With Richie + Again = Eddie And Richie Have Touched Dicks At Least Once, and Bill’s entire face burns bright red.

“Well,” Eddie says, dropping back into the scratchy pillows. “I’m sure as shit not straight.” Bill squeaks, Bev looks at him sharply, and Eddie manages a smile. “Can someone get me a laptop so I can call my fucking lawyers?”

**Author's Note:**

> somewhere in atlanta, stanley uris suddenly has a migraine


End file.
